


Broken Bow

by Adenil



Category: Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Bannertech, Clint Barton's potty mouth, Clint is kind of abelist, Getting to Know You(rself), Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Trans Male Character, Trans!Betty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’ll think later that it’s poetic that he compares Banner to his bow about a minute before Falcon and Red Hulk break three of them to kidnap Banner. In fact, the exact moment he realizes this is when he’s woken up drugged and groggy and he reaches for one of those broken bows and the only word out of his mouth is, “Banner,” even though there’s nothing he can do anymore. </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>_</p>
<p>Or, Clint tries to be a good friend but is very bad at it. He might be taking advantage a bit. He tells himself he's getting better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still working on Run, Banner! Run! but I wanted to write more Banner/Barton, and I wanted to write something in the EMH-verse. EMH!Barton is such a punchy guy, it's great. I like his scrambled thoughts. 
> 
> p.s. if you think Hulkeye is the same thing as Banner/Barton, ohoho have I got news for you! :)

It’s sort of a thing that Clint does when the adrenaline is running high and the heat of battle has him desperate. He grabs the nearest warm, willing body and they share a bed.

 

Or maybe it’s more accurate to say it’s a thing Clint _used_ to do, since now he’s joined the testosterone-brigade and the only female forms within sight are one neck deep in unrequited romance with _Ant-Man_ of all people and another so cold she’s got space powers.

 

But he’s got a hand—two of them, actually, although he usually only needs one at a time—so he can take care of it himself. And on those rare occasions when they have SHIELD at their backs and there’s a pretty lady who’s just as high on adrenaline as he is, he grabs her and runs.

 

Rare occasions being, by definition, few and far between he’s getting a little desperate.

 

He’s starting to get to the point where he figures he might just have to bite the bullet—or shaft, as it were—and try some of that experimenting he missed during his formative years. Lefty isn’t cutting it anymore, and he’s winding up so bored and sore that he can’t fire straight when he needs to.

 

Problem with that idea, though, is that now he’s on a team. A team which is built on trust, and which doesn’t cycle out constantly like his SHIELD teams always did (with the notable exception of Natasha, who had refused more than a kiss from him anyway). So if he’s going to sleep with someone, he expects there to be all the problems that can come with that. Issues of love and trust and all that mumbo-jumbo that really shouldn’t frustrate him, but it does.

 

Second problem with that is that he’s a guy, and so are they, so he needs to pick one that won’t make it a _thing_ because, really. He’s not gay; he just needs an assist every now and then.

 

It’s when he’s in the middle of deciding who is most likely to be down for a quickie (Tony, who is down for anything once, but who Clint still can’t stand? Cap, straight out of the 40s and nicest guy you could meet, but still so straight and narrow? T’Challa who—let’s be honest, probably had a thing or two going in Wakanda?) when AIM sort of makes the decision for him.

 

He’s got Hulk by his side as he sinks the final shot: an explosive arrow that takes out whatever tech thing they had built—Tony had explained over the comm, Clint had ignored him. And then he’s all nervous energy as the two of them head back to the mansion, him on his bike and Hulk just bounding through the air with that bored look on his face.

 

Clint doesn’t quite know what comes over him, but when they get back and the mansion is empty and he’s horny as hell and his arm already hurts enough without an hour of failed masturbation, he just grabs the Hulk by the wrist and says, “Let’s bang.”

 

Hulk’s eyes go a bit unfocused and he looks over Clint’s shoulder. Clint turns to look, but there’s no one there so he turns back and tightens his grip a bit. “Hulk?”

 

That seems to snap him out of it, and Hulk shakes his head a little and says, “I don’t do that.”

 

“Do what? Relationships? Sex? Because it doesn’t have to mean more than that, Jade Jaws. I’ve got some pent up energy that needs burning, and I’m sure you do, too. That wasn’t exactly a satisfying fight.”

 

Hulk grumbles a little in response, but he doesn’t push Clint away and so Clint gets a little thrill of excitement because, hey, maybe it will happen. He concentrates very hard on not thinking about the fact that Hulk is a guy—no, not really a guy. He might be man-shaped, but Hulk is something else entirely (and Clint likes that thought, that Hulk isn’t really a man, so he clings to it). He’s never done someone who was twice his size with hands as big as his torso, either. But… he trusts Hulk, a little bit, maybe, and Hulk trusts him, so experimentation could be a go.

 

“No,” Hulk says eventually, and Clint has to backtrack in the conversation to even realize what he’s talking about. “Not very satisfying. But I don’t do that.”

 

“Sex?”

 

Hulk nods a little and he’s got that far-away gaze again. Something clicks a little for Clint because it’s almost like Hulk is _listening_ and—

 

“Are you seriously talking to Banner right now? Dude, this is between us.”

 

Hulk grunts again and turns his full gaze down on Clint. “He had to tell me what you meant.”

 

And, geeze, that’s awkward because Clint hadn’t thought that there’d be the possibility of deflowering but, come to think of it, how many chances would Hulk get to sow his wild oats? “So now you know. Can we concentrate on the conversation at hand?”

 

“You talk too much,” he says, and grabs Clint and pushes him against the wall.

 

It’s sudden and more than surprising with his quiver digging into his back and his bow clattering to the ground. Clint has just a moment to realize that they hadn’t really discussed this very well, and thinks maybe he should tell Hulk he’s not down for being pinned, but the air is out of his lungs as he dangles in Hulk’s grip. Clint just barely manages a wheeze in response and he clambers his hands over Hulk’s wrist for purchase.

 

Hulk grunts a little and waits for Clint to relax in his hold. Clint props one leg up against the wall, his heel digging into the paint, and glances up at Hulk from under his cowl. He’s been rock-hard since he sunk the last arrow and he’s not about to give up now.

 

“So, we doing this, or…?”

 

Hulk’s eyes about roll out of his head and he brings up his other hand to press hard and solid against Clint’s crotch. Clint doesn’t gasp—he super-duper doesn’t—but maybe there’s a little more air that comes out on his next exhale as he pushes back. It shouldn’t be different from his own hand, but it is. Clint can’t think of much reason why except that Hulk is bigger and warmer and rougher and more real and solid and, okay, maybe there are a lot of reasons why this is different but he really doesn’t care.

 

Clint just arches up and Hulk gives him the most ridiculously huge hand job of his life. He manages to say some stuff that he really hopes is snarky (and judging from Hulk’s annoyed expression, it’s a win for him). But, mostly, he’s just writhing and pressing and struggling to hold on to Hulk’s enormous grip as his quiver digs into his back.

 

And when it hits him it’s a complete surprise, only not really because his own garbled moan tells him it’s coming.

 

He sort of slumps there against the wall, into Hulk’s hand, and he’s feeling kind of heady and nice right up until he starts feeling damp and gross and like he needs to wash—or maybe burn—his uniform. Something else hits him when he realizes what he’s just done and who with, but Clint is nothing if not giving (okay, he’s not that giving, but just this once…) and so he manages to glance up at Hulk again.

 

“Do you want me to, uh, take care of you?”

 

Hulk’s eyes are rolling again and he drops Clint in a pile on the floor and walks away, huge lumbering steps carrying him out the door. “Already told you. I don’t do that.”

 

Clint just watches him go thinking mostly _at least that’s over with_ and _what the actual…?_

 

*

 

It’s about a week later when Banner comes out to play and Clint is trying to pretend that he doesn’t like watching the sun set, when Banner turns to him and says, “I think that Hulk is asexual.”

 

Clint just shrugs and says, “Whatever,” but as soon as he’s home he spends about three hours on the internet looking up the word.

 

And then he feels bad because, shit, this is like beyond not being interested. Maybe Clint just wanted a little experiment, but Hulk didn’t even want _that_. He’s wracking his mind trying to pinpoint the place where he coerced Hulk into doing it but he can’t, exactly, until he realizes that Hulk would do _anything_ for him.

 

He realizes this as he’s staring down the barrel of Tony Stark’s repulsors and Ms. Marvel’s glowing hands and they’re all on his case about maybe being a Skrull, or whatever, but only Hulk leans over and says they all better step off, he’s got Clint’s back.

 

Which really just makes Clint the happiest guy in the world right then, to have Hulk trust in him. So he resolves to apologize to Hulk and let him know it was a fluke.

 

Only, he’s still thinking of how to do that when he says the dumbest thing he’s ever said straight to Banner’s face. He tells him he’s not an Avenger. Never will be. That it’s _Hulk_ who does the Avenging, and that Banner is just like his annoying equipment that he has to carry around and take care of. He’s still reeling about what it means to be an Avenger as everyone seems to be betraying him, and he can’t handle that from Hulk, too, so he takes it out on Banner.

 

(He’ll think later, that it’s poetic that he compares Banner to his bow about a minute before Falcon and Red Hulk break three of them to kidnap Banner. In fact, the exact moment he realizes this is when he’s woken up drugged and groggy and he reaches for one of those broken bows and the only word out of his mouth is, “Banner,” even though there’s nothing he can do anymore.)

 

He’s still thinking he can salvage this, make it all better, until—wham, bam, thank you ma’am—there’s a huge Skrull invasion and Cap of all people orchestrates Banner’s capture, and he doesn’t see Hulk for three months.

 

 

*

 

And it probably says something about their relationship, because the Hulk trusts him implicitly, but he doesn’t exactly trust the Hulk.

 

To be fair, Hulk does break his leg.

 

He understands _now,_ of course, that there had been some weird mind control electric thing on the back of Hulk’s neck making him do it, but at the time he’d been really hurt—and not just physically. So he never exactly trusted the Red Hulk, either, but he was willing to be civil right up to the point where he realized exactly who they were dealing with, at which time all the broken legs in the world wouldn’t have stopped him from protecting his buddy.

 

Hulk resolves to be angry, despite the smile on his face, and so Clint resolves to pretend that nothing had ever happened. And when he says nothing, he means it. Going all the way back to their tryst against the wall and saying Banner wasn’t an Avenger. Didn’t happen. None of it.

 

His lie to himself almost works until there comes a day when, surprise surprise, they actually need Banner for something.

 

It’s something to do with radiation or maybe Gamma in particular, Clint doesn’t know. He’s there for the show of Tony and T’Challa working in the lab. But Hulk just shrugs and goes a little misty-eyed and says, “He doesn’t want to come out.”

 

There’s a lot of staring and glancing around and general confusion and finally Tony asks, “Why not?”

 

“He doesn’t want to be alone.” Hulk’s looking confused now, too, which is understandable because how could being outside be lonelier than being stuck with Hulk twenty-four-seven?

 

“Well, we need him,” Tony says, and they goes on to describe exactly why which flies completely over Clint’s head. But Clint does catch the part where Tony says, “Ross isn’t going to give up without a fight, and we need to neutralize him.”

 

Suddenly Clint’s on high alert with his hand itching at his bow—still whole and unbroken—because any time Ross is mentioned he gets a little funny. Hulk just looks tired at his name, like he’s sick of dealing with the guy. “Ross is out?” Clint asks, finally making himself known by jumping down from the rafters.

 

Tony is the only one who startles at his presence—T’Challa probably knew he was there before Clint even walked in, and Hulk is just used to it.

 

“General Ross has indeed escaped,” T’Challa says and dammit if Clint still doesn’t quite know where to look when he talks with his mask on. At the barely-moving lips behind the mask? At the place where his eyes would be? Some middle point on his forehead? He settles for turning to Hulk and placing a hand on his arm.

 

He realizes as he does it that it’s the first real time he’s touched the Hulk since Ross was put away the first time. He doesn’t move his hand. “All right there, Hulk?”

 

Hulk shrugs one great shoulder, but he’s still misty eyed. His next words aren’t for Clint, or any of them. “If you stay inside you’ll get smaller.” A pause, and then Hulk grunts. “Suit yourself.”

 

They all stand there a while until finally Tony rubs his hand over his face and starts to murmur something about trying to work with Hank Pym but they’re all interrupted by a rather large explosion.

 

It’s huge and it shakes the mansion right to its foundations, and immediately Tony’s got his suit on and the rest of them are running up the stairs and outside. Clint has his bow drawn and ready and in about .002 seconds he’s shot like, at least fifty bad guys and he tells Hulk as much, but Hulk doesn’t care because he’s punching through tanks and then there’s Ross being a complete jackass.

 

“Hulk!” he bellows, and his voice carries unnaturally far over his bullhorn. “You will reform into Banner immediately and surrender yourself. Failure to comply will result in your destruction.”

 

“Who let him out?” Tony asks as he flies by Clint. Clint gives him a shrug, wondering himself. But Ross has this wild-eyed look and he’s got red on his skin, so maybe no one really _let_ him out. Maybe he’s just out. Doesn’t matter, anyway, because he managed to find some tanks that Clint needs to take care of.

 

Clint’s holding his own and cracking wise right up to the point where Red Hulk comes out and their Hulk is catching him and jumping high, high onto the top of a skyscraper. Clint can’t see them anymore, but he can see smoke and dust coming from the rooftop as they fight, and flames from the Red Hulk.

 

Then he hears Hulk’s scream of anguish, and Clint doesn’t waste any time grappling up the roof.

 

He swings over just in time to see their Hulk bent at the feet of Ross, who has a remote control in his hand. Hulk is facing away and it looks like he’s holding something. Ross has this manic look as he reaches forward, and Hulk is barely able to lift one arm and shoves his hand away.

 

Clint draws his bow and fires, and Ross is knocked off the side of the building and into the air beyond by the explosion.

 

“Hulk!” He runs over, uniform trailing behind him in the wind, another arrow knocked and ready just in case—this one is a stun arrow, specifically designed by Tony Stark to take down the Hulk nonlethally.

 

But Hulk just stands and turns, his entire body shaking and tears pouring down his face, and Clint can see what he’s holding in his arms.

 

It’s Banner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hulk and Banner have been ripped apart. Also: Feels.

“He ripped us apart,” Hulk says, and he’s crying but at least he’s not curling up in a ball like an enormous kitten like he did every time they tried to pry him away from Banner. He’s got the unconscious Banner cradled in his arms as T’Challa examines him. His huge green hands seem even more over-the-top large as he gently rocks Banner back and forth, great wet tears falling on his bare chest.

 

That’s all that Hulk’s been saying, over and over since they managed to coax him back to the mansion in the wake of the battle. Ross is gone—the jerk—and all of the tanks have powered down, but there’s still smoke in the street and confused civilians everywhere. Clint doesn’t really care at the moment, because he’s still trying to get over the lie his eyes are telling him

 

Because there’s no way that what he’s seeing is true. Banner can’t exist outside of Hulk.

 

Hulk seems to think the same thing, because he’s holding Banner so close and so tight, like he wants to swallow him back up, that Clint’s a little nervous he might hurt the other guy.

 

He lays a gentle hand on Hulk’s shoulder and he ignores the way Hulk flinches at his touch. “Hey, just take a breath. We’ll get this figured out.” He glances over at Tony, who’s looking just as lost as he feels. “Let T’Challa examine him on a biobed.”

 

Hulk lets out a great, heaving sigh, but finally allows for this. T’Challa pulls Banner away easy as could be and wanders to the nearest biobed with the tiny scientist clutched in his hands. The further Banner gets away from Hulk the faster the tears fall until he suddenly turns to Clint and gathers _him_ up to his chest. Clint’s not one-hundred percent sure what’s going on, but it seems to make Hulk feel better to hold him close, so he allows it. And he ignores the funny look Tony gives them.

 

The biobed immediately lights up with readings from Banner and T’Challa hums and haws over them in his usual silent way. After a moment he turns to where the three of them are standing awkwardly and says, with just a hint of surprise in his voice, “He’s a perfectly normal human being.”

 

“Should he not be?” Clint asks because, hey, he doesn’t know.

 

“In the past, scans of Banner have been impossible to obtain.” T’Challa turns his masked head to Banner’s unconscious form. “The radiation his body puts out destroys most scanning equipment.”

 

“Yeah, even I wasn’t able to make something shielded enough to scan him or Hulk,” Tony puts in.

 

Clint frowns a little from his position against Hulk’s chest. The top of his cowl is getting wet from all the tears, but Hulk hasn’t said anything since they took Banner away. “So he’s a normal human, and he’s unconscious. What’s that mean?”

 

“It means we should call Jane Foster,” Tony says, and he’s already pulling out his Avengers ID card.

 

Clint watches them all work, occasionally reaching up to pat Hulk’s broad chest in what he hopes is a placating gesture. Hulk’s tears haven’t shown any signs of slowing, and Clint wonders if he’s getting a little dehydrated.

 

He can feel T’Challa’s piercing gaze on them, even though he can’t see it. After a long moment T’Challa picks Banner back up off the biobed and brings his limp form over to Hulk again. Hulk drops Clint like a sack of potatoes and pulls Banner close to him, humming a little in contentment. From his place on the floor, Clint can see Hulk relaxing just from proximity to Banner, and he wonders about that.

 

And that’s when Banner wakes up.

 

He goes from zero-to-sixty in a heartbeat. One moment he’s blinking sleepily against Hulk’s chest, the next he’s literally bounding off of him and doing a backflip in the air—and, wow, Clint didn’t know he had it in him.

 

Banner lands with his hands stretched out in front of him in tiny little fists and says, “I won’t let you take him.” His eyes are still unfocused like he’s not seeing any of them, and it’s not until Hulk reaches out a hand that Banner snaps out of it.

 

“Banner?” Hulk asks.

 

“Hulk?” Banner asks back. He looks down at himself, clad only in the tiny medical shorts T’Challa had slipped on him. Clint can see him taking stock of the situation, running his hands over his body. After a moment Banner turns and places his hand against the wall like he’s trying to push through it, and seems astonished when it stays solid. He glances back at the Hulk, his eyes a little wide.

 

Hulk mirrors his action on his own segment of wall, and for a moment the room is very still. Hulk is looking wide-eyed as well as they share some weird, unspoken moment.

 

Then Banner bursts into tears, and Hulk bursts into tears, and they both gather each other up and cry in each other’s arms.

 

Clint has to look away, because _yikes_.

 

*

 

It’s pretty much the next fucking day that Banner decides the best solution is for him to just leave.

 

Hulk is distraught, locking himself in his room and not coming out, although Clint can hear snuffling from behind the door. Clint stands outside his room for a long time, contemplating going in, but in the end he’s not strong enough. Instead he goes downstairs to where the rest of the team is trying to talk Banner out of it.

 

They’re around the briefing table in a huge circle, save for Jan who is buzzing near Banner’s ear and gesticulating wildly about how much they need him. Banner’s face is calm and impassive as he very patiently waits for her to finish—which takes so long that Clint gets himself a soda and finishes half of it before she’s done.

 

After a while, though, she grows and sits in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest like she’s won some huge battle. Clint watches her and sips his drink. The rest of the Avengers go around the room like they’re having story time, but most of them can’t come up with much. They don’t even pause for Clint to say anything, which kind of bothers him, but whatever there are drinks.

 

Steve says something about friendship, Tony something about a lab partner. T’Challa just says they need him, and it pretty much goes like that until they very quickly run out of things to say. Because, hell, Clint’s the only one who’s spent more than about ten minutes with the guy and all of that was fishing or saving the world.

 

Clint still doesn’t say anything, though. He just watches as Banner leans forward in his chair and folds his hands on the desk. “Leaving is what’s best for Hulk,” he says, and Clint has to hand it to him because his voice doesn’t even crack. “Ross isn’t going to stop trying to find me. I was always Hulk’s one weakness, and if I can disappear then he can be safe.”

 

“Isn’t that more of a reason for you to stay?” Tony asks. “We can protect you here. We can make sure Ross doesn’t get ahold of you.”

 

Banner shakes his head. “Hulk and I are the only ones who know why he was created. Even without his blood, if they can get at the knowledge in my head it could be disastrous. I need to leave.” His face is still ridiculously calm, and it’s kind of making Clint upset.

 

The rest of the protests are paltry. Thor seems very sad when Banner finally stands and picks up his backpack—already packed, Clint notes, like he wasn’t going to listen to their disputes anyway. He gives them all a wan smile and heads for the door.

 

Clint waits until he’s finished his drink and the rest of the team is sitting there shell-shocked to go after him.

 

He catches Banner in the foyer, about to push open the door and walk out of their lives. He doesn’t quite know what to say as he wraps his hand around Banner’s arm and holds him still. He doesn’t want to lie to the guy, but he does want him to stay because Hulk is _crying_ upstairs, which has never happened in the history of ever.

 

Banner is giving him one of those unreadable looks again, glancing between Clint’s hand on his elbow and Clint’s face. After a while Clint drops his grip and gives a little shrug.

 

“I think you could have a place here with us. You know?”

 

Banner blinks at him, startled. He’s got this look on his face like it’s _Clint_ who has suddenly separated into two people. But then he gives a curt nod and walks upstairs to Hulk’s room.

 

Clint doesn’t know what to make of that, but he’s willing to take his victories when they come.

 

*

 

He walks in on them, once. ‘Walks in’ probably isn’t the best term. More like, ‘spies on them through the window in Hulk’s room from his perch on the skyscraper across the street,’ but the notion stands.

 

The tears have finally stopped. Hulk is just holding Banner like a ragdoll, one huge hand under Banner’s legs with Banner sitting neat and pretty in his arms. Clint can see Banner’s lips moving like he’s talking to Hulk, but from this angle he can’t make out what he’s saying.

 

Whatever it is must not be too exciting, because Hulk’s slowly getting that bored look on his face again. So, maybe it’s a lecture about feelings, or a long chat about science. Either has been known to make the Hulk tune-out.

 

Clint watches as Banner talks until Hulk just flops backwards on the bed, asleep. He hasn’t been spying that long (five hours isn’t long, right?) when it happens. Banner extricates himself from Hulk, pushing his huge arms away, and stands and stretches.

 

He crosses his arms over his chest and doesn’t look back at his sleeping alter-ego as he strides out of the door, and Clint is once again at a loss for what to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Apparently Hulk is still reeling from the shift, because the next time they get in a fight he gets his ass handed to him.

 

The fight was brought to them, landing on their doorstep in the middle of the night. Clint is tired and griping and he’s got his pajama pants on under his tights. The alien-of-the-week is mostly robotic, with spindly metal bits all over that would be perfect for smashing (they’re already perfect for sinking arrows into, so Clint figures the concept is the same). And Hulk _has_ smashed a few. Quite a few. But it seems like his heart isn’t in it. He doesn’t even yell or shout _once_ as they swarm him.

 

“Thor!” Clint shouts into his communicator, definitely not freaking out—okay, maybe a little. “Hulk is down!”

 

There’s a great explosion of thunder and hammer and noise, all raining down upon the alien-bots. Clint manages to take down the one nearest him and curses—not for the first time—his own inability to protect his friends.

 

Thor actually has to lift Hulk out of the wreckage of the monsters, and he sets him down beside Clint before flying off again. Clint dances around Hulk, firing arrows as he speaks.

 

“You all right, Hulk?”

 

Hulk just grunts and takes a paltry swat at an alien trying to accost Clint. Of course, his paltry swat sends the thing flying across the city, but still…

 

They have each other’s backs, anyway, during the fight, but it just isn’t the same. Hulk doesn’t even roll his eyes when Clint makes bad jokes. He doesn’t scoff or complain _once_. He just stands there beside Clint, keeping the aliens from attacking him.

 

As the battle winds down and everyone regroups to celebrate, Hulk just shrugs. And when Hulk says, “I’m going back to my room now,” Clint is the only one who hears the unspoken _to cuddle Banner_.

 

Which is weird. But, they all lead weird lives, so he resolves not to think about it.

 

*

 

It’s maybe twelve hours later, when Clint’s post-battle jitters have finally waned and he’s watching the news (they snuck up on him _again,_ the bastards) that Banner finally reappears.

 

Banner sits beside him on the couch without preamble, folding freckled hands around his waist. Clint actually has to slide over a little for him to sit, since it’s sort of his thing to plop down in the middle of the couch and claim it all for himself. He’s not sure what to say to the guy, so he doesn’t say anything at all as they watch the newscasters talk about the latest attack in blasé tones.

 

“Thank you,” Banner says eventually, never taking his eyes off the screen.

 

“For what?” Clint leans back. He’s looking at Banner, but Banner isn’t looking at him. Banner just has that neutral expression he always sports, like he’s sort of bored but-not-really.

 

“For making me stay.” Banner leans back a little, too. “I had thought that leaving would help Hulk, but… maybe it would have made it worse.”

 

“It definitely would have made it worse.” They both wince at his words. “I mean, for both of you. Hulk’s not taking this very well.”

 

“I finally got him to sleep.” Banner tips his head back to stare at the ceiling, and now Clint can see the tired lines around his eyes, how his bored-not-really look is half exhaustion. “He’s worried about you.”

 

Clint blinks at that. “Me? Why?”

 

Banner turns his head, resting solemn eyes on Clint. He trails his gaze over Clint’s cowl, the shape of his mask, before finally resting on some middle point on his forehead. “I’m not exactly sure. It’s…different now that I can’t hear his thoughts. Hulk’s never been able to hide from me before.”

 

“Why would Hulk hide from you?”

 

Banner just shrugs and let’s his eyes fall to meet Clint’s, and for a second they’re just staring at each other. “He’s never tried before, so I don’t know. Maybe… maybe you could talk to him? Actually talk, I mean. Not just during a battle.”

 

Clint tears his gaze away from Banner and back to the screen. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

The rest of the evening is silence until Clint glances over at where Banner is slumped against the arm of the couch, fast asleep.

 

*

 

Only, Clint’s not very good at talking.

 

Clint’s good at a lot of other things. Like, he’s really good at shooting his bow. He can hit anything with a stick and a string. He’s good at espionage and investigating. His weeks searching for Natasha prove that much. He’s good at fighting, running, ducking, and dodging. He was a damn good SHIELD agent until he defected. And, he can make a mean lasagna.

 

He’s also good at hiding.

 

Which is what he’s doing now, as he stalks Hulk to the lab. He knows T’Challa sees him, but T’Challa makes no mention and so he doesn’t blow his cover. He hides out in the rafters again and stays small and silent as Tony and T’Challa run their little tests on Hulk and Banner.

 

They still haven’t figured out why the two have separated besides the obvious—that Ross did it. Clint thinks that Banner has his own suspicions, but he’s not sharing as they take samples of his blood and compare it to Hulk’s.

 

The other tests are weird, mostly centering on how far away Banner can get from the Hulk before Hulk curls up into a ball and loses the will to live. The answer is: not very far. Like, four blocks. It seems that Banner is unaffected by the distance, but they don’t try and pull Hulk any further away after his face screws up in pain.

 

“That might have impacted the fight yesterday,” Tony says as he moves meaningless numbers across a screen.

 

“Indeed,” T’Challa agrees. “It would appear that Hulk’s emotion centers are stunted with the absence of Dr. Banner. Without rage to fuel his strength, Hulk is much weaker.”

 

“I just didn’t feel angry,” Hulk says, and looks at Banner.

 

Banner doesn’t look back. He doesn’t really do anything except sit there with his hand on Hulk’s arm. He lets them work around him, and he doesn’t volunteer anything despite being the foremost expert on this kind of nonsense.

 

“Did you feel any emotions at all?” T’Challa asks eventually.

 

Hulk thinks about it for a moment, his face screwed up in concentration. “One of the aliens was going to hit Hawkeye. That pissed me off.”

 

T’Challa turns and—shit, _shit_ he’s looking straight up into the rafters and right at Clint. Clint ducks down as far as he can to hide, but he doesn’t think anyone else has noticed.

 

“We’ll have to run more tests.” Tony’s already moving on. “But maybe the best stop-gap solution is to keep you near each other.”

 

Hulk grunts. “In battle?”

 

“We’ll figure it out,” Tony assures him.

 

Banner just gets up and walks away, with the other’s questions trailing after him like a cloak.

 

*

 

Clint’s not really sure how this all became his responsibility, but it is. He’s the one bringing Hulk a meal when Jarvis informs them that he hasn’t eaten since his forcible separation from Banner.

 

Which was, you know, a _week_ ago.

 

He’s got a cart piled high with all of Hulk’s favorites. There are whole chickens and racks of ribs, three pizzas and calzones that will be bite-sized for Hulk, and a dozen bunches of carrots in the mix, since that’s the only vegetable Hulk will eat.

 

He knocks on the door and doesn’t get an answer, although Jarvis states that Hulk is in there. He ends up picking the lock (and making a mental note to tell Tony to increase the security) and walking in pushing the cart.

 

Hulk’s curled up on his bed, facing away from the door, and for some reason their wall-side-tryst from five months ago flits through Clint’s head. He feels a little sick at the memory, and tells himself that this is so beyond not the time.

 

“Time to eat, Jade Jaws,” he says. He kicks the side of the enormous bed lightly with his foot, and Hulk rolls over to stare at him.

 

Hulk grumbles and grunts and complains, but eventually Clint has him eating again. He sits beside Hulk on the bed and watches as Hulk eats his substantial weight in greasy food before munching on the carrots one by one.

 

“Feeling better?” he asks when Hulk pushes the empty cart away.

 

“No.” Hulk flops back onto the bed and rolls over.

 

It’s more than a little frustrating to watch Hulk pull away, which Clint tells him in no uncertain terms. “Look, you jerk, I’m trying to help here. Hiding in your room all the time isn’t going to fix anything. You feel better with Banner, right? Where is he? We can go find him.”

 

Hulk grunts and shakes his head. “He’s working,” he says, like Banner’s been sentenced to death or something.

 

Clint stands up, intending to pace around the room, but Hulk’s hand snaps out and wraps around his chest and in a flash Hulk is holding him in a tight hug. “Uh…”

 

“Don’t go,” Hulk grumbles over him. “It actually is better with you here.”

 

They’re sort of in an awkward cuddle, definitely not spooning (which Clint would never admit to anyway). Hulk is breathing over him and holding Clint like a security blanket, using him to block out the world. Clint lets it happen because he still isn’t quite sure what’s going on. It’s not like he was the one who was ripped out of the guy’s head.

 

“Look, Hulk,” he says eventually, when Hulk has calmed down and he’s begun accepting the situation. “I just want my friend back.”

 

Hulk seems to deflate at his words, but his arms tighten around Clint. “Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

 

“Banner?” At Hulk’s nod, Clint shrugs. “Well, I can, but I can’t be in two places at once. I can either stay here or go to the lab.”

 

“Go,” Hulk says immediately, shoving Clint off the bed.

 

Clint stumbles a little, but regains his footing. He wants to say something cheesy about how he should stay there and comfort Hulk. Maybe something about how they are BFFs forever-forever. But instead he just watches Hulk roll over and stare at the wall.

 

So Clint strolls out of the room pushing the empty cart, and tries to keep his promise to watch over Banner.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter today because--omg, is that Dr. Ross???
> 
> Blatantly stealing story from MCU for this to work.

Banner is kind of amazing in the lab.

 

Of course, Clint knew this already. He’s known it since the first time he met Banner and watched him create astonishing things in a lab he’d built mostly himself. Now that he has access to an _actual_ Stark-Brand lab, it’s even better.

 

Tony’s there, too, sort of hovering and being a nuisance. But even Tony seems impressed with whatever-it-is that Banner is building. He’s leaning over Banner’s shoulder, dwarfing him, as he asks about this thing and that thing that Clint doesn’t understand.

 

He kind of wants to understand. He wishes he could know all the engineering behind the two tiny devices that Banner is bent over. Clint likes to think he’s smart—or at least, not dumb—but Banner is worlds ahead of him. Even Tony looks confused sometimes, though he tries to hide it.

 

The weirdest part, though, is Banner’s smile when he works.

 

Clint doesn’t think he’s ever seen Banner smile, unless you count the time when Hulk had been laughing as he switched back (which he doesn’t count). But Banner has a nice smile. It’s bright and it reaches his eyes when he lets it out, despite the tiredness he clearly feels. It makes the freckles on his nose bunch up as he laughs at one of Tony’s questions before launching into a long-winded explanation.

 

(Maybe Clint shouldn’t be thinking about Banner’s freckles, but whatever.)

 

“Clint, what arrows do you have?” Banner asks as he slips the devices over his wrists, checking them with a screwdriver.

 

“Uh, the usual.” Clint shifts in his perch on the stool. He runs a hand over his quiver strap. “Mostly explosive rounds, piercing, three net arrows.”

 

“Would you please fire a piercing arrow at me?”

 

Clint stares at him like he’s grown a second head, and Tony’s giving him the same look. “Bruce,” Tony starts—and is it weird that Clint had actually forgotten his first name? “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

 

“It’s the best way to test the bracers,” Banner says with a smile. He flips his arms out to the side and a sort of strange, glowing, green-yellow-blue, pulsating energy envelops him. It sticks to him like a second skin before melding with his body, disappearing. “I’m ready when you are, Hawkeye.”

 

Before Tony can protest again, Clint draws his bow (whole, unbroken) and fires.

 

He aims at a spot just above Banner’s left shoulder, not wanting to actually hurt the guy. He needn’t have worried, however, because Banner moves faster than the eye can see and has his arm up, a round blue-green shield expanding over his wrist to block the arrow.

 

The arrow literally _shatters_ at the connection, and the three of them jump.

 

“Hmm…” Banner’s already fiddling with his bracers, even as Tony and Clint both reel from the mini-explosion. “I think I had it turned up too high. Let’s try again.”

 

Clint fires volley after volley at Banner, until Tony eventually gets called away for a board meeting. Banner seems happy enough as he slips out of his bracers and hooks them up to the computer to run a diagnostic. He’s even humming a little to himself, that tiny smile stretched across his face.

 

“Thank you for your help today, Clint,” Banner says as numbers and graphs begin appearing on the screen in front of him. Clint can see them reflected on his face, little lines amidst freckles.

 

“No problem,” Clint tells him, and thinks that maybe he shouldn’t mention how easy it was to shoot at him. Instead, he flips the stool over to himself again and takes up residence there, watching the other man work late into the evening.

 

Banner doesn’t comment about his presence again.

 

*

 

A board meeting is never a board meeting when you’re an Avenger, and they get the call to assemble not much later.

 

It’s just Clint, Banner, and Hulk in the mansion with Janet holed up in the basement watching for other signs of trouble. Which really means: it’s just Clint.

 

Jan’s worried face appears beside Tony’s on his card. “Someone has to stay here and guard the mansion,” she says, even as Tony is dodging blasts on the other end. She doesn’t say _because Hulk and Banner are as good as useless right now_ , but Clint catches her meaning.

 

Banner, apparently, doesn’t because he’s already got his bracers on and is asking Jarvis to contact Hulk. “Get Tony’s suit around,” he tells Clint, like _he’s_ in charge which he so definitely isn’t.

 

It’s a good idea, though, so Clint runs out of the lab towards the suit-storage room while shouting for Jan to stay at the mansion. They’ve had enough people breaking in while they’re _there_. They don’t need to give the baddies free run of the place while empty. Jarvis helpfully opens the suit locker for him when he gets there, but he doesn’t have time to do much before Hulk and Banner are right beside him and Hulk’s gathering the Iron Man suit in his arms.

 

“What are you doing?” Clint asks Banner. Banner’s got his hand on Hulk’s arm, and Hulk is _smiling_ , which is awesome, but also weird because he hasn’t smiled in a long time. “You aren’t coming with.”

 

Banner arches one eyebrow at him and tightens his grip on Hulk’s arm. They both start walking away towards the quinjets, and Clint scrambles to keep up. “There’s two ways this can go,” Banner says coolly. “First way: you argue with me and force me to stay here. Maybe Hulk stays, too, until we both get fed up and go anyway. Either way, you can’t watch over us. Second way: we all go together and you can keep an eye on us.” He turns and gives Clint a smile over his shoulder. “Your choice.”

 

Clint scowls at him, frustrated. He wants to say something about how Banner isn’t an Avenger—and it’s not even in a mean way, this time. He genuinely just doesn’t think this is a good idea. But he still spits out, “Fine,” and lets them crawl into the quinjet together.

 

Hulk gives him a huge smile, which just about breaks his heart, and then they don’t have any more time to talk because they’re fighting monsters.

 

Leave it to the futurist who only wants to do good to piss off the most powerful people.

 

Tony’s neck-deep in some kind of weird blob monster when they arrive. Clint doesn’t bother parking the jet nicely; he just jumps out with his bow drawn and fires into the belly of the beast. It doesn’t do much. Mostly, it sinks into the jelly-like substance and Tony yells at him for being stupid.

 

Thankfully, Hulk’s feeling like his old self as he jumps out of the jet with _Banner riding around his neck!_ And, wow, Clint should not feel so jealous about that, but he totally does. That’s his spot to ride.

 

Hulk lets out a great roar and starts tearing through the blob monster, trailing the Iron Man suit behind him in one hand. Banner’s holding his own as well, blocking tendrils and shots with his shield-emitting bracers, occasionally landing blows with his fists that send the whole monster undulating.

 

When they’re close enough, Hulk shoves the suit at Tony and Tony crawls into it while still mostly covered in goop and the tide of the battle definitely turns towards them.

 

It’s easy, after that.

 

But Clint is still a little jealous.

 

*

 

It’s when the battle is over and they’re all limping back home, that Clint starts to wonder just _who_ he’s jealous of.

 

They’re all disgusting and wet, covered in jelly and moisture. Tony is the only shiny one, with tiny wipers working at his suit to polish it. Clint just feels like he needs to burn yet another ruined uniform, Hulk clearly doesn’t care, but _Banner_ —

 

 

Banner is standing there in his normal, oversized clothes. A t-shirt and jeans, in fact, which are now plastered to his body, showing off every line and curve. It shouldn’t be this weird because Clint’s seen him _naked_ before, and not felt like this. But before Banner didn’t have that wild grin on his face, his eyes sparkling, his freckles drawing together over his nose. Before, Clint didn’t have his own adrenaline pumping through his veins, begging him to just let off a little steam.

 

It’s crazy. Completely crazy, the way he looks at Banner and kind of wants to bang him. The way he wants to help Banner out of his wet clothes, scrub the jelly from his messy hair, trace the lines of freckles down his chest.

 

It’s insane.

 

Clint is thankful that he doesn’t get the chance to do anything stupid as Hulk and Banner disappear together into Hulk’s room. Iron Man is beside him, trying to say something about debriefing that Clint doesn’t hear.

 

He goes to his own room and gives his arm a good workout while pointedly not thinking of freckles.

 

*

 

After that, Clint can no longer say that Banner isn’t an Avenger, because he totally is.

 

Tony gives him his card with a minimum of fanfare, as Banner requested. There’s only a tiny paragraph in the next day’s paper that announces it (although all of the news stations pick up the story and run with it, trying to dig up as much dirt on Banner as possible).

 

For his part, Banner just seems embarrassed. “I just wanted to help,” he says. “Hulk needed me.”

 

And Clint doesn’t know what to do with that, so he nods and says he’s there if Banner needs him to fire more arrows at him.

 

They sort of fall into a weird friendship, with Clint constantly watching over Banner at the behest of Hulk, and occasionally checking on Hulk when he can. Hulk begins joining them more often in the lab. Usually, it’s just to sit. More recently he comes to read books in the corner, his huge hands dwarfing tiny pages as he flips through them.

 

Clint notices that he doesn’t read any books on science. They’re all action novels and spaghetti westerns.

 

Hulk seems to be getting better, though, which pleases Clint and seems to relax Banner. Hulk’s face no longer twists up like he’s going to cry. He no longer hides in his room, curled into a ball. He stops skipping meals. Things seem to be returning to normal—as normal as a band of superheroes can be.

 

It’s during one of Hulk’s long lunches that the weirdness ramps up again.

 

“Can I tell you something?” Hulk asks around bites of chicken.

 

“Uh,” Clint says, because he’s never known Hulk to _ask_ to have a conversation. Hulk usually avoids conversations entirely, preferring to listen and say as little as possible. “Sure?”

 

Hulk frowns at him, green eyes calculating. “You can’t tell Banner.”

 

“Okay.” Clint folds his arms on the countertop and leans in, interested now in what Hulk has to say.

 

Hulk leans in as well, like they’re sharing a great secret. “I do still have all my emotions.”

 

Clint frowns at that, thinking back over T’Challa and Tony’s hypothesis that separating from Banner had stunted Hulk’s emotion centers, or whatever. “But I thought—”

 

“They’re weaker now,” Hulk agrees. He chews a chicken leg thoughtfully. “It confused me. I always used to think I was the angry one. But now, I think it was Banner.”

 

And that’s… huh. Clint doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s pretty sure _everyone_ thought that the rage that fueled the Hulk came directly from his gamma-green skin. Reconciling the smooth, calm face of Banner with the rage that could literally move mountains doesn’t seem possible. So he says that.

 

“That doesn’t seem possible.”

 

Hulk shrugs, and he’s apparently done with the conversation because he doesn’t try to argue. Clint watches him eat until Hulk grumbles at him to go away, at which point he goes to bother Banner in the lab.

 

(All because Hulk asked him to keep an eye on Banner, of course.)

 

*

 

“Hi, is Bruce here?”

 

Clint blinks down at the man in front of him. The man is tiny, waif-thin, standing on the doorstep to the mansion with a hopeful look on his face. Clint has this weird, fleeting thought that the man is almost beautiful with his high cheekbones and perfect skin. He quickly stomps down the thought, because he’s not _gay_ , dammit.

 

“Who’s asking?”

 

“I’m an old friend of his,” he says, and shifts around a little. “From, ah, Culver. Could you tell him Dr. Ross is looking for him?”

 

Clint slams the door in his face. Then, he thinks better of it and rips the door back open and yanks Dr. Ross in. Dr. Ross is confused, clearly, his face twisting and—there it is, there’s the family resemblance.

 

He’s got his bow out and a net arrow fired before he can even think about it, and Dr. Ross tumbles to the floor with nary a complaint.

 

“I kind of expected this,” Dr. Ross says from his place on the floor. He doesn’t seem too bothered by the arrow Clint’s got pointed at his face. “But if you ask, Bruce will vouch for me.”

 

Clint doesn’t want to—he definitely doesn’t want to. He kind of wants to throw Dr. Ross away. But by now his ruckus has drawn the attention of T’Challa from the other room, and there’s no way he can cover this up. Instead, he pulls out his card and calls Banner.

 

He and T’Challa both stand over the bound intruder until Banner comes up the stairs, a tiny confused look on his face. The confusion grows as he spots Dr. Ross on the ground, who gives him a little wave from beneath the net.

 

“Hi, Bruce!” he says brightly, and Banner’s face calms.

 

“B—” he starts, and then frowns again in confusion.

 

“It’s, ah, Bertrand, now. Berty.” He wiggles a little in Clint’s net, like a shrug.

 

“Berty.” And Banner smiles.

 

Clint can only stare at him. He’d thought that he’d seen a true Bruce Banner smile before, but those were nothing like this. This smile is slow-growing, but expanding fast, spreading across his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. It’s a smile of more than just recognition; it’s the smile you give when your best friend is back from the dead.

 

Banner kneels beside Berty Ross and helps him out of the net. T’Challa disappears when Clint looks away, and when he looks back Banner and Berty are _hugging_ like they’re both afraid the other will fly away.

 

“Berty,” Banner mumbles. Then, he pulls back, laughing. “I think I can get used to that.”

 

“I’m glad.” Berty trails his fingers over Banner’s face, familiar and close. Then, he glances over at Clint and Clint tries tone down the angry glare he’s giving. “Ah, do you think we could get lunch? Catch up?”

 

“Of course!” Banner helps him up, and Clint realizes that this is the first time he’s ever seen the man willingly touch someone who’s not the Hulk. “Clint? Could you let Hulk know I’m out?”

 

“Sure.” Clint stands there a little dumbly, watching them go. They’re both leaning against the other, whispering conspiratorially, and Clint’s still reeling from the name _Ross_.

 

(He follows them. Because he’s a good friend, just bad at showing it.)

 

*

 

They hole up at a little diner a few blocks from the mansion, in deference to Hulk’s distance problems. It’s kind of quaint, candle-lit, and Clint wonders if they’re on a _date_. They don’t seem too worried about it as they talk and laugh over spaghetti, Berty Ross occasionally reaching over the table to grasp Banner’s hand as if to reassure himself that he’s still there.

 

Clint perches on top of the nearest building, lazily propping his head on his arm as he watches. It should probably be creepy, but whatever, he’s here now. And he just wants to make sure that Dr. Ross doesn’t pull some trick and steal Banner away.

 

It’s when they’re just getting started on desert that Clint remembers he didn’t actually tell Hulk that they were going.

 

He whips out his card and dials Hulk, smirking a little when his angry green face comes into view. “Hey there, buddy.”

 

“What do you want?” Hulk grumbles.

 

“Well, I’m currently sitting on a rooftop watching Banner eat lunch with someone named Berty Ross. He asked me to tell you.”

 

“Ross?” Hulk’s face doesn’t even shift, it just goes tired. He’s been recovering from his split from Banner, but Clint can see it still affects him.

 

“He seemed to know the guy.”

 

“Show me.”

 

Clint twists a little and holds his card so that the camera can see into the diner. When Hulk grunts he pulls back. “Satisfied?”

 

“No.” Hulk hangs up on him.

 

Clint’s not sure what that means, if they’re going to have the Hulk walking down the street to the diner in a few minutes. He just slips his card back into his waistband and watches as Berty picks up the check.

 

Then the two men are standing outside the door to the diner, and Clint is still watching as Berty leans down and Banner leans up and—

 

They kiss.

 

Clint throws himself behind the roof’s wall, his hand at his chest, his heart confused and pounding because _what_. _What_ is going on? How could Banner _ever_ kiss a man with the last name Ross? And maybe Clint isn’t quite sure which part of the situation has him most confused (the man part? The Banner part? The Ross part? The kissing part?), but boy is he _ever_ confused.

 

When he finally manages to pull himself back up to look over the wall again, Berty and Banner have parted ways and Banner is walking back to the mansion with a spring in his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure how to tag Berty Ross on this story. "Betty" is the canon name, but it feels disingenuous? Does anyone have any suggestions for tags I can add?


	5. Chapter 5

“Hawkeye!” shouts a sweet young news reporter who fits into her skirt _just-so_. “What is the Avengers’ official statement on their latest member being gay?”

 

“Uh,” probably isn’t the right answer to that question. Neither is, “Fuck off,” but Clint says both those things before pushing the mic away.

 

“Are the Avengers making a political statement?”

 

“Will this lead to inter-team conflict?”

 

“Is Dr. Banner available for comment?”

 

“Was Banner given a place on the team due to a pre-existing relationship?”

 

“Have you considered his impact on America’s youth?”

 

“What are you watching?”

 

Clint nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Banner’s voice. He scrambles for the remote, but it’s too late. Banner’s already seen his pitiful showing with the press cornering him, Banner’s kiss with Berty plastered across the screen. “Uh,” he says. Then, “Uh.”

 

“Oh.” Banner moves around the room and sits lightly on the edge of the couch. He’s as far away from Clint as he can get, as if giving him space. Clint watches him watch the screen, seeing the way Banner’s face scrunches as the newscaster questions the integrity of the Avengers, all because one of them is gay.

 

After a while Banner leans back on the couch, shaking his head. “I’m sorry they cornered you like that. I didn’t…expect this kind of reaction. I thought I could stay quiet about being an Avenger.”

 

“Nothing is quiet about being an Avenger.”

 

Banner laughs lightly, ducking his head. His long hair sweeps around his cheeks, hiding his eyes. “No, I suppose not. I just got…used to slipping under the radar when I was living in the Hulk.”

 

Clint has to look away, back to the screen where they are pulling up grainy footage of a younger Banner going to get coffee. There’s a blurry picture of him standing next to another man with question marks badly photoshopped onto it. Then, there’s the image of Banner and Berty kissing in front of the diner, with the caption _Gay-Vengers?_

 

“That’s extremely uncreative,” Banner comments, and Clint laughs.

 

“Maybe you should talk to Tony about actually releasing a press statement,” Clint suggests. “He’s good with the press. He could spin this any way you want.”

 

“Spin?” Banner looks over at him with a wry smile, and Clint finds himself blushing.

 

“Well, yeah.” He glances away, around, looking anywhere but at the freckles on Bruce— _Banner’s_ nose. He’s glad he’s wearing his cowl, which covers enough of his face that maybe Banner won’t see the blush. “Since you joined so quietly, the press is looking for any reason to stir up trouble. If you come out—I mean, if you make an official statement, then they won’t have as much reason to make things up.”

 

“They aren’t really making anything up.” Banner shrugs. “You know, it’s funny that this happened with Berty.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“Just because of our history together.” Banner tilts his head to one side as if considering his options. “I’ll talk to Tony tomorrow. I don’t have the energy to deal with this right now.”

 

Clint nods, and wants to say something else, maybe something about how he’s not homophobic (really! Definitely not! Maybe only when it’s the thought that he might like men?), but he doesn’t say anything. He just leans back as well and watches as the news shifts around to other topics, like wars here and there, some chaos in Russia.

 

He doesn’t realize that he’s thrown his arm over the back of the couch until he feels Banner’s head rest against it. He glances over and sees Banner fast asleep, mouth parted slightly as he breathes. He watches the man—so smart, so tiny, so confusing—sleep for a long time.

 

*

 

Clint does what he normally does when he’s got a problem he isn’t sure how to solve: he reverts back to his SHIELD training.

 

_Bertrand Ross_ isn’t exactly a guy trying to stay under the radar. He’s been happily publishing away at Culver for three years. He’s got journal articles on everything from crystals (which Clint doesn’t understand) to thermoluminescent dosimeters (which Clint finds boring) to gamma radiation (which raises Clint’s hackles, because that’s _Banner’s_ thing).

 

He reads through all the journal articles anyway, keeping them hidden on his StarkPad. Bruce is flitting around the lab with that ridiculous smile still on his face, and it’s driving Clint up a wall because how _dare_ he act so happy about kissing a man named Ross?

 

“Do you have any foam-trap arrows with you today, Clint?” Banner asks just as Clint is trying to sound out a fifteen-syllable word in his head.

 

“Huh?” Clint glances up, and is nearly knocked over by Banner’s brilliant smile. “I, uh, yes. I do. Do you want me to shoot you?” It should probably feel weird to ask that, but it doesn’t.

 

“Please.” Banner spreads his arms and the blue-yellow-green energy takes shape around him again. His eyes flutter closed as it does, like he’s relaxing in the bath after a long day—and maybe Clint shouldn’t think about him in the bath.

 

He draws out his bow and waits for Banner to signal he’s ready. When he fires, he’s not sure what he expects to happen.

 

Banner doesn’t even try to block the arrow. It lands solidly in the middle of his chest, the entire shaft lighting up green as it hits. Already the foam is shooting out to encase Banner, slipping over his skin and holding him still as it solidifies. Clint is stuck watching Banner fall prey to his trap arrow, thinking maybe the bracers aren’t working correctly. Only Banner’s face is still showing, surrounded on all sides.

 

As soon as the foam has completely solidified, Banner takes one breath in and scrunches up his face in concentration. On his exhale the foam cracks, shatters, falls apart all around him and there’s a burst of green and Banner is free.

 

“I think that went well,” Banner says, dusting off his shoulders. “I actually expected the foam to be stronger.”

 

Clint blinks at him. “That’s…the same foam that forced the Red Hulk to change back. Even he couldn’t break it.”

 

Banner just shrugs and smiles before going back to his work, and Clint can’t take it anymore.

 

“So, did you seriously date someone who’s related to Ross?”

 

Banner slips back into that bored-not-really neutral expression that he always used to sport, and Clint instantly curses himself. “Yes,” Banner says. “But it was a long time ago.”

 

“Really? Because it kind of seemed like it was still a thing.”

 

“No, that was…” Banner shrugs. “For old time’s sake, I suppose. I hadn’t seen Berty in a long time. But we’re both… different people, now. It probably wouldn’t be the same.”

 

“Right,” Clint says. He watches Banner fiddle with the bracers like he’s hiding behind them. “You know, you can still date people even though you’re an Avenger.”

 

“No, I can’t.” Banner just shrugs again and powers up his bracers. “An explosive tip, please.”

 

Clint takes aim, fires, and they don’t talk about it again for a while.

 

*

 

“You know, there’s a maximum number of times you can shoot me before I start to hold a grudge. That number is one.”

 

Clint steps out of the shadows, but doesn’t drop his bow from where he’s aiming at Berty’s chest. “I’m not planning on shooting you.”

 

“Ah, great!” Berty smiles over at him and rises from his desk. “Because I really want to like you. It seems like you have Bruce’s best interests at heart.”

 

“That’s why I’m here.” Clint shifts from foot to foot, wondering how anyone could be so calm in the face of a very pointy arrow. “I want to know why there’s no record of a Bertrand Ross before three years ago.”

 

Berty’s face falls, and he glances away. He suddenly goes from confident to withdrawn, folding into himself like he could disappear. Clint doesn’t know what to make of that, so he just stands very still. “I, ah, don’t think you have the right to ask me that.”

 

“Banner has a lot of enemies,” Clint tells him. “And his worst is named ‘Ross.’ So, forgive me if I don’t trust his family.”

 

“Right.” Berty clenches and unclenches his fists at his side. “I changed my name three years ago. From ‘Elizabeth’ to ‘Bertrand.’”

 

Clint blinks and lowers his bow. He stares at the slight man before him, who still won’t meet his eyes. “What are you saying?”

 

Which is how Clint learns all about the term ‘transgender,’ which he has never heard of. He feels like he’s asking way too many embarrassing questions before Berty eventually just tells him to look it up and pushes him gently from his office.

 

So Clint does, and he feels a little bad. The internet is very helpful, however, not unlike when he’d gotten confused about what _asexual_ meant. Clint is gradually finding that there is way too much about this stuff that he doesn’t know, so he devours Wikipedia and all the google results he can find until he could probably write a book on Gender and Sexual Minorities (new term, he totally learned it because he’s a genius).

 

He’s not sure what to do with all this new knowledge, so he locks it up in his mind alongside all the new words for radiation he’s learned, and all the ideas about freckles he’s been having.

 

*

 

Hulk and Banner have apparently reached some sort of truce, because suddenly Clint doesn’t have to constantly watch Banner anymore.

 

He’s not sure how he feels about it.

 

He’s definitely not pouting, however, when Steve corners him with a smile. No, no. He’s just staring out the window in a very masculine way as Hulk and Banner chat with Janet in the other room (he’s pretending not to listen).

 

“How’s the view?” Steve asks him, his Captain America-grin wide across his face in stark contrast to his civilian clothes. Who knew Steve could look so intimidating in jeans and a sweatshirt? Clint thinks it’s a little odd to see him out of uniform. But, maybe he’s the only one crazy enough to stay dressed for battle twenty-four-seven.

 

“Nice,” Clint says, along with a noncommittal grunt. Truth be told, he hasn’t been paying attention to what’s outside the window. Amora could have walked by dragging Thor on a leash and he wouldn’t have noticed. “Sun’s out.”

 

“Sure is.” Steve moves to stand beside him. They wait there for a moment, both looking out the window. Clint can hear Hulk laughing in the other room, and he winces.

 

“Something you need, Cap?”

 

“I was…wondering if you could help me understand the situation with Banner?”

 

Clint turns to look at him, noting the way Steve isn’t quite meeting his eyes. It’s an odd look on the man. He’s never known Captain America to look away. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean the news reports.” He waves one vague hand and Clint immediately understands. “I didn’t want to ask Banner directly, in case it was upsetting to him. But it seems that there is a…problem?” he says it like he’s tasting the word. “With the people Banner associates with.”

 

“You mean ‘cause he’s gay,” Clint says, and then winces again at his own choice of words. He’s still not entirely sure if Banner actually _is_ gay. All he’s done so far is kiss one man, whom he dated when he was still ‘Betty.’ But no one knows about that, and Clint’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to share.

 

Steve just spreads his hands out, palms up, in a _please help_ gesture. “Maybe you can explain that? In my day I think the word meant something different. ‘Carefree,’ maybe.”

 

“Right.” Clint stares at him, wondering how this burden has fallen onto him. It seems to be his luck, lately, to be put into uncomfortable situations that he has to try and talk his way out of. Too bad he’s awful at talking. “Well… it’s, uh. Tony showed you how to use the internet, right?”

 

“Yes.” Steve gives him a look that says _but I don’t like it_.

 

Clint steels himself for the conversation to come, blocking out the sound of Jan in the next room making a joke that has Hulk laughing again. “Well, they had gay people in your time, too. Maybe just not a word for it. It just means a man who…likes men. You know.” He gestures with one hand. _Sexually_.

 

“Oh.” Steve seems to relax perceptively. “Is that all? The way the news was going on you’d think he had a _disease_.”

 

“Some…” Clint frowns. He glances out the window again. “There are some people who think it _is_ a disease.”

 

“That is ridiculous,” Steve says. Clint’s not sure what to say to the righteous fury in his eyes, reflected in the panes of glass. “Banner needs the team by his side. I’ll prepare a press release.”

 

“Saying what, exactly?”

 

Steve shrugs a little and smiles. “I’ll tell them I am as well.”

 

Clint whips his head around, melancholic staring forgotten because _what._ What. He says that, “What.”

 

“I’ve liked men in my day, along with the women. It wasn’t something I ever realized I should be concerned about. But I don’t take kindly to bullies. If it would help Banner to feel more comfortable, I’d be happy to do it.” Steve’s still got that ridiculously photogenic smile on his face, like he’s in the middle of a press release right now.

 

Clint really has no idea what to say to the sudden realization that _Captain America likes men_ , so he croaks out, “Bisexual.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“When you like men and women. Bisexual.” Clint’s just staring now, and he wonders if Steve is having a good laugh over it all.

 

“Interesting.” Steve considers for a moment before reaching out and clapping Clint on the back good-naturedly. “Thank you for that, Clint. You know a lot about this stuff.”

 

Clint really wants to say _please don’t tell anyone_. Instead, he says, “Any time,” and watches Steve walk away.

 

He tries to quash the sudden, irrational realization that Mr. 1940s, straight-and-narrow would have been the _perfect_ choice for a quickie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a conscious choice when I started this fic to only tell it from Clint's POV. It's fun because Clint is a rather unreliable narrator, especially when narrating his feelings. Keep this in mind. ;)
> 
> Also fun because my perception of EMH!Clint is that he is almost exactly the opposite of MCU!Clint. EMH!Clint is punchy and dramatic and cares too much about what other people think. MCU!Clint is more stoic and carefree (surprisingly not an oxymoron).


	6. Chapter 6

Clint very definitely does _not_ let out an undignified squawk of protest when Hulk picks him up and throws him over his shoulder. Turkeys _squawk_. He is a goddamned _Hawk_.

 

“Hulk, what?”

 

“Banner’s going out. Need you to keep any eye on him.” He walks down the halls of the mansion as if he doesn’t have a dangerous assassin hanging off his arm.

 

“What? I’ve been doing that.”

 

“No.” Hulk grunts at him. “You’ve been moping.”

 

Clint really doesn’t have much to say to that, so he allows Hulk to carry him into the foyer where an excitable Jan is chatting to a tired-looking Banner. Hulk tosses him on the floor without preamble, leaving Clint in a tangle of limbs.

 

Jan helps him up. “Clint! You can’t go to shopping looking like _that_.”

 

Clint glances down at himself as he stands, noting his purple uniform is slightly wrinkled. He smoothes a hand over his front before looking up at Jan.

 

She’s dressed to the nines in a very smart dress and high heels. Her hair looks great, perfectly coiffed with a slight curl. She’s never been able to get the bottom to hang straight, but it seems now she’s embraced it. Clint always likes the way she dresses when out of uniform. She’s high fashion, perfectly put-together. He thinks, not for the first time, that if not for Hank…

 

Then he looks to Banner and realizes he’s screwed.

 

Because Banner is in completely normal clothes. Clothes that don’t even fit him. He’s in a huge, baggy sweatshirt and jeans with knobby knees, and his left shoelace is untied and dangling out. His hair is unkempt and Clint can see a burn mark on his elbow from lab work. Only, instead of thinking _frumpy_ when he looks at him, Clint thinks _hot_ , immediately followed by _adorable_ as he remembers all the freckles across Banner’s nose. He’s hit with the sudden thought that he could probably fit into Banner’s shirt with him, if they held each other close enough.

 

He’s probably not supposed to think that.

 

He realizes he’s been staring when Jan waves a hand in front of his face. “Hello! Earth to Hawkeye? Are you changing or what?”

 

“What?”

 

“Hulk said you wanted to come,” Jan explains, and Clint doesn’t point out what a liar their big green friend is. “But you can’t go to the mall looking like that.” She gestures again at all of Clint, as if he’s one big fashion disaster.

 

Maybe he is.

 

“I’ll, uh. Hulk grabbed me before I could. I’ll be right back.”

 

Thirty minutes later, they enter the first store. After finally giving the green-light on Clint’s outfit, Jan hasn’t stopped talking. She’s chatting about some movie she saw the other night with Jane Foster, and Clint’s trying really hard to pay attention to her voice instead of the way Banner puts his hands in his sweater pocket.

 

Clint wonders if he could slip his hand in there, too.

 

At the very least, he can take solace in his own civilian-wear. He’s always known that he cleans up nice. He’s even wearing a shirt with buttons in a color other than purple. It’s a big day for him.

 

Jan’s still talking, and in a flash her arms are full of men’s wear, and that’s about the point that Clint realizes that they’re there to dress Banner. Jan uses Clint like a hat rack to drape fabric over as she ushers Banner around, occasionally holding shirts up to his tiny frame or pulling out pants for him to stare blankly at. He tries everything on dutifully, but only comes out of the changing room when Jan’s insistence grows cataclysmically loud.

 

And Clint has to remind himself to breathe.

 

Thankfully he can hide behind the pile of clothes in his arms, because _wow_. If he’d thought Banner in frumpy clothes was easy on the eyes, Banner in a perfectly-fitted button up and skinny jeans is _unreasonable_. Once again he feels ridiculous, because Banner is a _man_ , and he’s seen him naked before, so there are two reasons why it shouldn’t be like this. But maybe that’s the problem, because he doesn’t have to let his mind wander when Banner lifts his arm to test the shoulders of the shirt, exposing a tiny flash of stomach. He already knows what’s there.

 

Clint reminds himself over and over again that Banner is a _dude_ and clearly Clint is losing his mind.

 

“Oh, it’s perfect!” Jan claps her hands together, startling Clint out of his reverie. “What do you think, Clint?”

 

“Looks good,” Clint manages, surprising himself. And is he mistaken, or is there a tiny smile on Banner’s face at his words?

 

They spend way too much time purchasing clothes, despite the fact that Banner immediately says ‘yes’ to everything Jan throws at him. In the end they have bags and bags of clothes, and Jan insists on paying.

 

“It was my idea, so I’ll pay” she tells Banner as she hip-checks him aside and thrusts her credit card in the teller’s hand.

 

Banner stumbles a little and frowns. “My other clothes were fine, Jan. You know that.”

 

“Your other clothes were Tony’s cast offs,” she says with an eye roll and a face that says the very idea disturbs her greatly.

 

“Wait,” Clint says from his position beneath at least a thousand boutique bags. “You don’t have any clothes?”

 

Banner pierces him with his somber gaze. “No, Clint,” he says mildly. “I’ve just been wandering around naked.”

 

Jan laughs at that, and then proclaims that they need to celebrate with a sandwich from a little bistro she knows across town. Clint goes along with it, still telling himself he’s only there because Hulk basically ordered him to. He’s starting to wonder how long that excuse will last.

 

He distracts himself with the uncomfortable notion that this may be only the third time Banner has left the mansion since his forcible separation from Hulk (and one of those was a battle). The man hadn’t even left to get _clothes_. Come to think of it, the only times Clint’s seen him out of the lab were when he was asleep on the couch. Clint is beginning to suspect that Banner hasn’t actually accepted the new life he’s been given courtesy of Ross.

 

He’s thinking about this as he takes a huge bite of his BLT (hold the _L,_ hold the _T_ ) and realizes that Banner is staring at him. They don’t call him Hawkeye for nothing. Banner can’t have been staring for long, but he is now. The two of them are alone at the table with Jan off to order her own sandwich, so Clint risks looking up.

 

Banner’s stare _floors_ him. Because Banner looks angry.

 

Clint manages to chew the rest of his bacon-and-bread. “What?”

 

Banner glances away, clearly schooling his features. “Nothing. Just…haven’t seen you much without your cowl.”

 

Automatically, Clint brushes his hand through his hair. He notices Banner watching the motion. “Yeah, turns out I really am a human under all the purple.”

 

Normally he would expect Banner to laugh, even if it was only a polite laugh. If anything Banner looks angrier, and Clint really doesn’t know what to do with that. “Human,” he says bitterly. “What a _fucking_ —” he stops himself, his face suddenly shocked.

 

Clint is a little gob smacked as well as Banner leaps to his feet, his fingers spread wide over the table. “I-I need to go,” Banner stammers. He heads for the door in short, jerky motions.

 

“Banner, wait.” Clint rises as well and follows Banner out the door. Banner’s clutching his head with one hand as he stumbles down the sidewalk. “Wait!”

 

Clint reaches out and wraps his hand around Banner’s elbow, and immediately regrets it when Banner turns and _punches him in the face!_ Clint rears back more out of shock than pain, even though the punch had landed true right on his jaw. He can see Banner reeling back as well, hissing and shaking out his injured hand.

 

“What the hell, Banner?” He runs a hand over his jaw, feeling the tender place where a bruise will form.

 

“I…I…” Banner is staring at him like he’s seen a ghost. Eventually he takes a step back, and another. “I need to get back to Hulk.”

 

Clint watches Banner turn and run down the street towards the mansion.

 

“What was that?” Jan bursts through the door, clearly ready to shrink if she has to.

 

“I have no idea,” Clint says, and he really, really doesn’t.

 

*

 

Banner’s running form makes it about three blocks before the explosion happens. Banner goes flying across the street, crashing through plate glass, and civilians are immediately panicking.

 

Clint has time to say, “Shit,” before reaching for his bow which _isn’t fucking there_. He’d forgotten he was in civvies, but he can still run so he does. He’s kicking up dirt dashing down the street as Jan shrinks and flies after him.

 

They make it halfway there before they see who’s attacking. Clint’s not sure who he was expecting—Ross, maybe, or HYDRA. But it’s only Whirlwind in his ridiculous green getup. He’s like a mini-tornado rocketing through the streets, and he must have hit a gas line or something to cause the explosion.

 

“I’ll keep him busy!” Jan shouts, even as Clint pulls out his Avengers ID card and signals for them to get their asses over here. He’s not too worried; Jan’s handled him solo before.

 

Clint bears right, jumping off an overturned car and straight through the broken window where Banner was thrown. He skates on shattered glass until he spots the man curled up against a wall, facing away, still as death.

 

Clint can’t breathe.

 

Adrenaline makes him forget about his aching jaw. He’s on Banner in a second, first-aid training also forgotten as he rolls Banner over. Banner is limp under his hands, arms flopping every which way, eyes closed and face slack. “Shit,” Clint says. “Banner, _no_.”

 

Banner’s eyes flutter open. Clint has just a second to be grateful before Banner _snarls_ at him, low and deep, and jumps up. He pushes Clint away and Clint falls backwards into the glass, feeling tiny slices in the palms of his hands that will be a bitch to clean out later. He stares up at Banner with as much incredulity as he can muster as a car flies by the window.

 

“What the hell, Banner?” he spits from his place sprawled on the floor.

 

“I hate you,” Banner says and, yeah, ouch, that kind of hurts. But Banner’s clutching his head, and even though his face is angry, his eyes are confused. Like he doesn’t know why he’s saying these things. He’s pulling on his long hair like he might be able to rip the anger from his head, and he refuses to look Clint in the eye.

 

“Screw this,” Clint says, and tackles Banner.

 

It’s a messy fight, with Banner all gangly limbs and sharp elbows to the face. Clint’s going to have a lovely mess of bruises to go with the one on his jaw from Banner’s first punch, but he doesn’t concentrate on that. He concentrates on getting Banner to _hold still_ long enough for him to pin his arms—of course, Banner immediately kicks backwards into his knee.

 

They’re scraping and rolling around in the glass, and eventually Clint manages to grab a handful of Banner’s oversized sweater and haul him up off his feet. He’s just about to start gloating because, _ha_ , he’s the best when Banner _headbutts him_.

 

It’s shocking enough that he drops Banner, and he barely has time to think before Banner scampers away through the broken window.

 

He follows in a flash, his own long legs barely keeping up with Banner’s dash. He can see Jan holding her own against Whirlwind down the street, and he thinks maybe he sees a flash of blue—Steve?—but he doesn’t have time to concentrate between gasping breaths and the pain in his knee. It’s not a useful Avenger, anyway, like Hulk would be right then.

 

Clint’s feet are pounding on cement and he thinks for just a second that Banner might actually get away, but then Banner stumbles. His hands fly to his head and his legs are spread wide to give him balance. Clint wastes no time tackling him again, and this time he pins Banner down to the ground and _holds_ him there. His hands are on Banner’s wrists and his legs are on either side of Banner’s waist and Banner is squirming face down on the sidewalk. Clint can vaguely hear him swearing and cursing at Clint like Clint kicked his favorite puppy or something.

 

And it’s about that point that Clint realizes the position they’re in.

 

He almost rips away in embarrassment. It’s only his SHIELD training that keeps him there as a bright red blush shoots across his face. He can feel it burning at the back of his neck, and he automatically looks down at Banner’s neck as well, an expanse of skin beneath long brown hair. He has one of those flashes again—those ridiculous flashes where he wants to do something that is completely crazy (like lick his way up the nape of Banner’s neck, swirl over his ear, nip at the junction of his jaw)—and he gulps.

 

Then he hears Hulk’s roar, and Banner goes limp under him.

 

Clint stays still, holding him just in case, until Banner slowly turns his head to look up at him. Surprisingly there are no cuts on the man’s face, just tired lines and confusion.

 

“I’m sorry, Clint,” he says, like this was an accidental brush in the hall and not fourteen punches and kicks.

 

“No problem.” Clint realizes he’s panting a little, and he feels irrationally angry because Banner has barely broken a sweat. “Are you, uh, _you_ again?”

 

“I think so.”

 

Clint finally jerks away from him and sits back on his heels, trying to eye Banner warily but unable to do so through the weird lust in his eyes. There’s just enough time for Banner to roll over and sit up before Thor practically throws Hulk on top of them.

 

Hulk reaches out two panicked hands and yanks Banner up, pressing him to his chest. “You went too far,” Hulk says into his hair, rocking him back and forth.

 

Banner’s legs are dangling awkwardly in the air as he pats Hulk’s arm and says, “I know.”

 

*

 

When they finally drag themselves back to the mansion, battered and bruised and frustrated with one another, Banner’s plan seems to be to hide in Hulk’s room for the rest of his life. Thankfully, Hulk has other ideas.

 

Hulk carries Banner down the hall the way a teenage girl carries books to her locker. Banner’s sort of flailing and protesting as they walk to the lab. Clint’s feeling vindictive and his jaw is starting to remind him that it hurts, so he follows slinging insults.

 

Tony is already there working on something-or-other, so Hulk just plops Banner on a stool and growls, “Stay.”

 

Smartly, Banner does.

 

He’s gripping the seat of the chair gently in his hands as Thor and Hulk walk out the door. Clint watches him do it and slowly realizes that they’re gearing up for a grand experiment, so he pulls up his own stool to watch the show.

 

“We’re just trying to see how far you can get from Hulk before you…” Tony trails off, spinning a few data points around on a hologram.

 

“Before I lose my mind?” Banner gives him a dry look, his bored-not-really blandness at maximum.

 

“Why don’t you just tell us what you’re feeling?” Tony asks. He’s already got a datapad out to make notes on.

 

Banner lets out a short sigh. He stares at Tony for a moment before shifting his eyes to Clint. “Embarrassment,” he says. “And…concern. I’m sorry, Clint. I never meant to hurt you.”

 

“Seemed like you did at the time,” Clint says and, yeah, maybe he’s a little bitter.

 

Banner purses his lips. “I think I did. At the time,” he clarifies. “Now I only feel sorry. I’m not sure how I can apologize.”

 

Clint scoffs. He picks at a thin shard of glass in his hand and refuses to meets Banner’s eye. He tells himself it’s because he’s angry, not because Banner has nice eyes. “Maybe you can’t.” He can feel Tony watching their little bitch-fest, but he doesn’t care.

 

“I really am truly sorry, Clint,” Banner tries again. “Would you, ah. I could look at your wounds?”

 

“Look, Banner—”

 

And it’s like a switch is thrown and suddenly Banner fucking _hates_ him again. “That’s not my _name_ ,” he snarls. His knuckles are white on the lip of the chair from how hard he’s gripping. “Why did I _ever_ think _I_ was the one who should apologize?” He laughs, low and ironic like a supervillain, which sends a little thrill of fear through Clint. “My only mistake was not taking you _out_.”

 

Clint can think of a million witty comebacks to that ( _“for dinner? Didn’t know you had it in you, Banner_ ”) but he can’t voice any of them because suddenly Banner is _on him_. His long thin fingers are on Clint’s neck and he’s honest-to-god trying to strangle him.

 

It’s so bizarre that Clint could laugh—if he could breathe.

 

SHIELD training saves him again as blocks Banner’s left hand with his wrist. He can vaguely hear Tony shouting in the background, “Get Hulk back, now!”

 

Banner’s in his face as Clint elbows him away—and Banner just looks so _calm_ that it’s frankly insulting. Like he’s not got a care in the world. It’s the same calm look he’d had in that elevator what seems like a lifetime ago when he’d said, “You’re making it very difficult to not turn into the Hulk and tear you apart.”

 

So this was Banner without the Hulk to hold him back. Scary as fuck.

 

Clint manages to dance around his next attack. Banner is almost clumsy in his rage, although Clint can see that his fighting style is refined around the edges—like he’s had to use it in actual combat before.

 

“Banner, seriously, chill out,” he says, and Banner just laughs at him again.

 

“Already told you,” he says. He reaches out his arms; Clint springs back, trips. “That’s.” Banner’s hands are on his neck. “Not.” Clint is falling backwards. “My.” He can’t breathe because _shit, shit._ “Name.”

 

Then Banner goes limp.

 

Thor flies through the window (Thor, _really?_ There’s a door—) trailing Hulk behind in one hand. Hulk looks like he’s just taken a nuclear bomb to the face, or maybe some serious drugs, but when Thor tosses him on the ground he still manages to drag himself over to Banner and pick him up again.

 

Clint decides he’s just going to have a little bit of a lie-down, and he watches Hulk and Banner cuddle from his position on the floor. The whole thing took maybe three seconds, but it was three seconds too long. Clint glances over and sees Tony standing with a fire extinguisher, and has just a moment to think _what_ before Tony breaks the silence.

 

“How far did you get?”

 

“Five of your miles.” Thor rests his hand on Tony’s shoulder like he’s holding him up. Clint wishes Thor would hold him up, because he still can’t get off the floor.

 

He can hear Hulk and Banner murmuring to each other, but he can’t make out what they’re saying. Finally, Hulk grunts and glances away. Banner looks up at them.

 

His eyes briefly rest on Clint like he wants to apologize again, but he can’t bring himself to do it. “I don’t think I can handle any more experiments,” he says dryly.

 

Clint laughs, surprising everyone. He wipes a hand across his brow and finally manages to stand up. “I don’t know. You carry yourself pretty well. Maybe we can have an actual sparring match sometime?” He makes a motion to pat Banner’s shoulder, but Banner is a bit awkwardly placed in Hulk’s arms. He settles for tapping his fingers on the top of Banner’s shoe, then giving Hulk’s elbow a quick squeeze. “In the meantime, though, I still have glass to pull out of my hands.”

 

As he strolls out of the room he can still feel everyone’s confused gaze on him, but he really and truly doesn’t care. His adrenaline is running high enough that he’s not even trying to excuse away the fantasies rushing through his mind. He just wants to take care of it and move on.

 

Like all his plans, this one goes awry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this chapter is NSFW.

You see, he’s got _glass_ in the palms of his hands. So no matter how much he would like to simply give it a go with Lefty, even he’s not that masochistic.

 

He settles onto the couch and flips the television to the most boring news station possible in a desperate attempt to tone down his arousal. He’s got tweezers in one hand and a bowl in his lap as he painstakingly digs out tiny slivers of glass. He gets through the first three—wincing and hissing in pain—before he hears Banner quietly open and shut the door.

 

Clint manages to cast a smirk over his shoulder. He delights in the way Banner glances down at his look—partly because he’s still smarting from all the punches earlier, and partly because it makes Banner’s eyelashes brush against his cheeks. (But, no, he’s not thinking about that right now. He’s thinking about how _Banner’s a dude_ and _he’s definitely not interested, it’s the adrenaline, shut up_.)

 

“I wanted to keep my promise to check your injuries,” Banner says, and Clint notices the first-aid kit in his hands.

 

“I didn’t know you were that kind of doctor.”

 

“I’m not.” Banner moves around the arm of the couch to sit down. Once again Clint has claimed the middle of the couch as his own private country—Clintonia—and Banner has to cram himself into the far corner. “Let me see your hands.”

 

Clint offers them up a little too eagerly, maybe, but Banner is gentle. He holds one of Clint’s hands in two of his own and slowly rubs at his palm, working the glass closer to the surface. Clint watches him do it, sees the way Banner’s nimble fingers work out a few tiny slivers without even resorting to the tweezers. And if Clint isn’t feeling any pain—if, in fact, he’s feeling a little heady and nice from the touch—well, he chalks it up to residual adrenaline.

 

Banner eventually does resort to the tweezers, however. He plucks at Clint’s skin with a sort of single-minded determinism, his mouth pursed shut like he’s afraid he might say something stupid.

 

Clint decides that if anyone’s going to say something stupid, it should be him.

 

“I really meant it about the sparring. You’re pretty feisty.”

 

Banner glances up at him, one eyebrow arching. “Feisty? What am I, the plucky heroine?”

 

Clint shrugs, smiles. “Nah. Maybe if I’d said ‘spunky.’”

 

Banner laughs and goes back to his work, giving Clint a perfect view of the freckles on his nose as they bunch up. He’s trying to remember why being attracted to this guy is such a bad idea as they basically hold hands on the couch while the news caster drones on about some war somewhere. But it’s not like they’re going to start _kissing_.

 

He’s definitely going to have a lot to blame on adrenaline, though, when he lets himself lean in a little to rest their foreheads together. Banner glances up at him, bizarrely close, and now Clint can see the definition in each tiny freckle. He can practically count them. He _wants_ to count them. He’s seen how far they go, and he wants to remind himself. He wants to learn every single one.

 

“It’s, uh…” Banner looks down, working the last shard of glass free. “I truly am sorry, Clint.”

 

“And it’s totally fine. Nothing can ever top what Skrull Cap did,” Clint says. Banner’s face goes a little cold at that, screwed up like he doesn’t want to remember and—shit, he probably _doesn’t_ want to remember. “Er, sorry,” Clint quickly backpedals. “Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

 

“It’s fine. You didn’t k— It’s fine.” He works free the last shard of glass and drops it in the bowl with a tiny _clink_. Clint watches it fall and looks back as Banner gently wipes his hands off with a sterile pad before throwing it away as well.

 

Banner doesn’t drop his hands. So, really, they actually are holding hands now.

 

Clint’s not sure how he feels about that. Actually, that’s a lie. He knows _exactly_ how he feels about that—warm and fuzzy. But he’s not sure how he feels about feeling like that. He thinks maybe he should be uncomfortable (with the constant mantra of ‘super straight here, folks’ running through his mind), but then he recalls Cap’s little chat with him the other day. When he’d said, “It wasn’t something I ever realized I should be concerned about.”

 

(Only, Clint does think he should be concerned about this. So the words aren’t that comforting.)

 

He’s still poised with indecision as Banner glances up again, his eyes falling on the healthy bruise on Clint’s jaw. Banner grimaces and raises his hands to brush long fingers against the purpling-bruise, light as a feather, enough to make Clint suck in a breath because, really, he should just lean in and—

 

“Sorry.” Banner drops his hand. “Does it hurt? I can get you some ice.”

 

“It doesn’t hurt.” Clint is still frozen, but he manages to hold on to Banner’s other hand.

 

“Do you have other injuries? I remember punching you…” He hovers a hand over Clint’s arm, then down to his stomach where Banner had scored a nice uppercut.

 

“It’s fine.” Clint moves automatically to show him, lifting up the hem of his shirt and then wincing. Because it’s not actually fine. The bruise is huge and an angry purple-red, and Clint can see the imprint of four fingers from Banner’s fist. “Or, uh, it doesn’t hurt.”

 

Banner lets out a low breath, like he’s been strangling himself. “I can’t believe I did that.” It’s like he can’t help himself as he finishes reaching forward and brushes his fingertips over the muscles on Clint’s stomach, tracing the shape of the bruise.

 

Clint’s skin twitches at the contact and he sucks in a breath of his own because, yep, he’s definitely turned on now. He tries to hold that breath and will it away, but when Banner glances up at him with uncertain eyes he realizes ( _shit, fuck, dammit_ ) that Banner has noticed as well.

 

Banner flattens his hand on Clint’s stomach solidly and slips down, his nail tracing over the waistband of Clint’s jeans. “I can take care of that for you.”

 

Suddenly, breathing is the furthest thing from Clint’s mind. He’s lost in a sea of freckles that he wants desperately to explore, drowning under Banner’s firm touch at his waist. Banner is holding so incredibly still—like he’s afraid he might spook Clint which, he _might_ , actually, come to think of it. Clint can see him calmly calculating the situation before suddenly glancing down like he’s concerned that he’s done the wrong thing.

 

Clint’s body operates before his brain as he reaches down to encircle his hand around Banner’s wrist. “Sure,” he breathes, and he revels in Banner’s tiny answering smirk.

 

For the first time that day, Clint is actually glad that he’s wearing civvies. It makes it easier for Banner (and, uh, maybe he should call him ‘Bruce’ now, if they’re doing this?) to undo his fly and zipper. He palms Clint through his briefs, and Clint has a moment to think that maybe it should be weird to accept a handjob from the guy who was punching you only hours ago, before Banner ups the ante by slipping off the couch and nestling between Clint’s legs.

 

Clint definitely doesn’t gulp as Banner situates himself and pulls him out, but he is doing a lot of blank staring in Banner’s direction. He manages to throw one arm over the back of the couch, the other gripping at the cushion as Banner strokes him and—

 

(Oh, shit, they’re on the _couch_ , where anyone could walk in and see and _know_.)

 

“It’s easier if you touch me,” Banner says wryly, his mouth quirked to one side like Clint is the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen. Come undone from a simple _touch_.

 

Clint forces himself to raise one hand and do what he wanted to do days ago. He tangles his fingers in Banner’s hair, feeling soft brown locks parting easily beneath his nails. Banner lets out a little hum and—

 

Yep. They’re doing this. Banner’s mouth is now on him and it’s all Clint can think about as he throws his head back and breathes, “ _Bruce_.”

 

So maybe that’s where it changes. That’s where Banner becomes Bruce, because suddenly that’s the only word that Clint knows. He just says it over and over again as _Bruce_ takes him apart with smart licks and caved-in cheeks because he’s definitely, _definitely_ done this before. But Clint really doesn’t care if Bruce was a professional blowjob connoisseur, he’s happy to reap the spoils of experience.

 

It’s so different from what Clint’s used to. With Bruce’s stubble against his thigh, Bruce relaxed under his hand practically letting Clint take complete control half the time. Like he doesn’t care what Clint does with him and maybe, maybe Clint should say something else besides _Bruce_ but he really can’t, all he can do is stress his name a little harder as a warning before he tips over the edge.

 

He’s panting heavy as Bruce packs him back up—what a champ—and rocks back on his heels. Clint’s feeling all heady and nice, and this time there’s very little clean up so he doesn’t feel the urge to burn his clothes.

 

He gets that burst of unexpected giving-ness again and manages to loll his head down to Bruce. “Do you, uh, want…uh.” He’s still not very articulate, though.

 

Bruce glances down, away, looking at the thread on the couch. “I’m fine. I’m just feeling a little tired.” He stands up and Clint gets this thrill of fear that Bruce will _leave_ and it will all be over.

 

He reaches out his arm and grabs Bruce, tumbling the smaller man into him. He holds Bruce in a weird half-hug and shakes his head. “Sleep here. You’ve done it before.”

 

Bruce shakes his head as well, but complies, stretching out with his legs tucked underneath him and his head resting on Clint’s shoulder. Clint lets him get comfortable on the couch, still feeling lazy and light-headed. Adrenaline’s, gone, though, and he realizes that he won’t have an excuse for post-coital cuddles later. At the moment he couldn’t care less. He’s too warm and pleasant with Bruce curled against him.

 

He lets Bruce sleep, and it only takes about twenty minutes of boring, droning news for him to follow into dreamland.

 

*

 

Clint may be freaking out a bit.

 

And ‘freaking out’ might actually be an understatement, because from the moment he wakes up alone on the couch he’s got his adrenaline pumping and his nervous energy is through the roof. His jaw aches and the scabs on his hands are itchy and annoying, but he can’t focus on either problem because he’s too worried about whether this is a _thing_ now.

 

Because he’s basically slept with Bruce twice now, hasn’t he?

 

No, he _knows_ that Hulk and Bruce are two completely different people who just happened to share the same headspace (until very recently). But he also knows that Bruce was there for at least some of his awkward encounter with Hulk—enough for Bruce to feel like telling him that Hulk was probably asexual and maybe Clint could stop being a huge dick who takes advantage of his friends?

 

(Clint doesn’t think he can ever stop. After all, he did it again last night.)

 

There’s also this underlying somberness in Clint’s stomach, right below the bruise from Bruce’s punch, which slowly grows when he feels the couch cushion beside him and realizes it’s cold. Bruce left a long time ago.

 

He’s clearly going crazy, because he actually _wants_ this to be a thing.

 

Either way, he has to know how much Bruce was paying attention when Hulk had him pinned against the wall. He stumbles to his feet and back to his room, barely remembering to turn off the still-blaring television as he does so. He changes quickly back into his uniform and feels a bit better, then, but still freaking out. He takes out his bow and tests the firing mechanism, reminding himself that it isn’t broken.

 

 

He finds Hulk where he usually is this time of day—in the kitchen, eating. He’s not sure why he goes to Hulk with this question, except that at least with Hulk he won’t get distracted by freckles. Because he’s never been _attracted_ to Hulk, really. In fact, not being attracted to him was part of the draw. He was still able to fool himself at that point.

 

Not that he has anything to fool himself _about_. He’s clearly just going crazy.

 

Hulk barely acknowledges him as Clint checks every corner of the kitchen to make sure they are well and truly alone. He even looks under the fridge for stray listening devices, and only finds a dried up slice of pizza.

 

He throws it away and turns back to Hulk, hands on his hips, and tries to think of how to broach the subject with him.

 

“You’re supposed to be watching Banner,” Hulk grunts.

 

“I think I’m in love with him,” Clint says, and then immediately freezes because _no_. No, definitely not, he was not supposed to say that because that is _not_ true. He’s crazy. Certifiable. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. “I mean, I, uh,” he says in a rush, tripping and flailing on his own words.

 

Hulk just grunts again and says, “I figured.”

 

“Okay, good, because— _what_. You _figured_? What does that even mean?”

 

“It means I already knew,” Hulk says, like Clint is a huge idiot. Which, maybe he is because he’s the one who wants to scrub Bruce’s hair and climb into his shirt and count his freckles and hold his hand when they go shopping and, damn, he has it bad doesn’t he?

 

“That’s—no. I didn’t say that, and you didn’t hear it.” He points an accusing finger at Hulk, who just shrugs and goes back to eating. Hulk’s face is the very definition of ‘whatever.’

 

Clint watches him eat for a moment as he gathers his scattered thoughts. Finally the energy is too great and he starts pacing around. He’s a little offended when Hulk doesn’t even follow him with his gaze. He just stares straight ahead, eating.

 

“Okay.” Clint whirls on him, gesturing wildly. “I actually had a reason for coming in here. I need—want to know how much you and Br-Banner shared before the separation.”

 

“Everything,” Hulk says.

 

“Everything?” Clint might be going weak in the knees. He tells himself it’s because Bruce kicked him there yesterday.

 

“Everything,” Hulk confirms, then amends, “He knows everything I do. Did. I could never hide from him like he could from me.”

 

“Everything.” Clint collapses on a chair with the sudden realization that their little wall-side tryst was a threesome. His first threesome. With two dudes. Well, one dude-who-was-incorporeal and one man-shaped-person. His life is weird, okay?

 

Hulk lets him wallow in self-pity for a long time, making gross sounds as he chews. After a while he sets aside the carcass of a chicken and licks his huge fingers off. He pushes away from the counter like he’s going to stand, but pauses.

 

Clint glances up at him. He doesn’t like the look on Hulk’s face.

 

“If you hurt him,” Hulk says slowly, like he can’t believe he’s the one saying this. “I won’t need Banner’s rage to smash you.”

 

Clint gulps. “Got it.” He watches Hulk walk away, each step shaking the floor.

 

*

 

Clint figures that he’s already gotten one shovel speech today; he might as well seek out another one. And he’s definitely not avoiding Bruce. That would be _ridiculous_. He’s clearly only avoiding himself.

 

He’s still trying to convince himself he’s not avoiding as he sips his coffee (black as night) and watches Berty slide into the seat across from him. Berty’s got his own drink (coffee, three creams, three sugars) and he’s sipping it with a pleasant smile as he gives Clint a long, sweeping look.

 

“Still trying to convince yourself to trust me?” Berty asks, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

 

Clint rolls his own eyes and sucks down some of his coffee. “Yes,” he says, and there’s no mischief for him. “Trusting isn’t exactly my thing.”

 

“Well, meeting in a coffee shop is a lot better than meeting in my darkened office at odd hours. So I’ll let you have this one.” He swirls his coffee with a little stir stick. Clint finds the motion odd. “You know, I’ve seen more of _you_ than I have of Bruce.”

 

“I’m the vetting process,” Clint says, still watching Berty stir his coffee.

 

“You don’t have to play the over-protective boyfriend routine so hard,” Berty says, perhaps unintentionally hitting the nail on the head. “I’m not trying to steal him away—literally or figuratively.”

 

“We’re not—” Clint starts, and at the beginning of the sentence he really is gearing up to lie. He’s got his SHIELD agent mask all in place to make the lie believable, too. But then it hits him midway through that they _aren’t_ , actually. Not that he wants that. “Boyfriends,” he finishes rather bleakly.

 

Berty removes the stir stick and sticks it into his mouth, sucking off a few beads of coffee. “But you want to be.” It’s not a question.

 

“Pft, no,” Clint says anyway. He ignores Berty’s knowing look.

 

“Uh-huh.” Berty twirls the stick around in his hand. “I get the feeling that Bruce doesn’t have a lot of people in his corner anymore.” He holds up a hand at Clint’s automatic fight. “Wait. What I mean is I want you to know that I’m on Bruce’s side. Not yours. I don’t even know what your side _is_. I love him and I want what’s best for him.”

 

Clint notes the present-tense on _love_ , but doesn’t comment. He’s not sure he wants to go down the rabbit-hole that is Bruce’s old relationship with Berty. It’s already clear that they had something pretty serious.

 

“I don’t really know what my side is, either,” Clint says after a moment.

 

Berty gives him another knowing look. “Maybe you should figure that out before you start interrogating all of Bruce’s exes for information?”

 

Clint scoffs at that. “I’m only interrogating you.” He means it as a joke, but he half misses the mark because it’s also true. He slugs down another inch of coffee, noting that he’s getting down to the bitter dregs. He wrinkles his nose in disgust.

 

“Well, since you clearly don’t want my advice I won’t give you any.” Berty swirls the stick again and licks it off. “But if I _were_ to give you advice, I would tell you to figure out yourself first. Bruce is a total score,” he says, a little fondness in his voice. “He’s a genius and he’s smart—which are two different things. He’s funny, creative, nicest person you’ll ever meet. And now he’s a super hero. I mean, I know you are, too, but…”

 

He trails off, considering. “What I mean is, why are you acting like this attraction is the worst thing to ever happen to you?”

 

Clint doesn’t know what to say to that, so he slugs back the rest of his coffee and says, “I think I’m being called to assemble,” even though his card isn’t going off. He pushes away from the table and gives Berty a little salute, which the man returns with a wry grin.

 

“Until next time,” Berty says, and he waves the stir stick at Clint as he walks out the door.

****


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any other chapter eights were all a fever dream and I was replaced with Skrull!Adenil. Sorry.
> 
> I was off track. Here's me, back on track.

He decides to apologize in chronological order of his dickishness, and he finds Hulk first.

 

He barely manages to get out a “Hey, Big Guy” before Hulk backhands him into the pool and goes back to sunbathing.

 

It’s weird, Clint thinks as he breaches the surface of the water spluttering and spitting, that Hulk is sunbathing. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Hulk just sit by the pool before. He’s always in the water swimming laps, or spending seemingly endless amounts of time holding his breath.

 

“Look, I’m here to apologize,” Clint says as he treads water. His uniform is weighing him down, threatening to tug him under, but he’s strong so he resists.

 

Hulk grunts. “You should be apologizing to Banner.”

 

Clint wants to ask if Hulk even knows what happened, but he refrains. He doesn’t want to be the one to explain if he doesn’t. “No, not about that that,” he says diplomatically. “I mean about our…wall-side tryst. When you said ‘I don’t do that’ but then totally did that because I, uh, coerced you. Or whatever.”

 

Hulk honestly seems a little confused for a moment, like he can’t even remember and isn’t that just great. Clint’s been tearing himself up and Hulk doesn’t even _care_. But eventually Hulk’s face smoothes over in recognition and he nods. “Fine.”

 

“Just ‘fine?’” Clint asks. He swims carefully over to the edge of the pool and pulls himself up, hoping that Hulk has calmed down enough not to throw him back in.

 

“Fine,” Hulk says again. “I don’t care.”

 

“ _I_ care,” Clint stresses. “I screwed up and I need to fix it.”

 

Hulk looks very done with this conversation, but Clint hovers over him until Hulk finally rolls his eyes and says, “You want to make it up to me? Find out what happens to Banner when Ross has him.”

 

“I thought you shared everything,” Clint says, like they’re all best friends sitting in a circle during story time.

 

“I do with him. He doesn’t with me.”

 

“Okay.” Clint sloughs some water off his uniform with his hands. “Where is he?”

 

Hulk smirks at him. “Within five miles.”

 

*

 

He goes hunting for Bruce, but doesn’t get very far before he’s cornered by T’Challa.

 

T’Challa is silent. He doesn’t even say ‘walk with me,’ but Clint gets his meaning well enough from the glare he gives beneath his mask. He wants to complain and say that his uniform is wet and that he needs to change, but instead he falls into step with T’Challa and they head to the training room.

 

He watches T’Challa place his vibranium daggers in a little hole in the wall, and then follows by placing his own bow and quiver there. It’s hand-to-hand, then, and Clint’s pretty sure he’s going to lose.

 

T’Challa is just _better_ than him at hand combat. He’s faster and more sly, and with his facemask he never telegraphs his movements. Clint once thought that Natasha is probably the only individual who could ever hold her own against T’Challa, but sometimes he’s not sure if even she could.

 

They fall into a stilted rhythm. T’Challa presses the attack, Clint defends and falls back. They’re like two dancers trained in different arts trying to come together over Polka music. It’s a bit inelegant, and Clint isn’t really sure what T’Challa is getting at with their spar. His uniform slowly dries until it’s not sticking to him awkwardly, although he still smells like chlorine and embarrassment.

 

T’Challa kicks at his head. Clint blocks, sidesteps. There’s a flurry of limbs and Clint goes down in a tangle. T’Challa helps him to stand and they square up again.

 

“You should watch the news this evening,” T’Challa tells him when they are both breathing heavy from exertion.

 

Clint straightens and goes to retrieve his bow. It still feels weird in his hands, like it’s weighted wrong even though it was specially made for him. He puts it over his back anyway and smirks at T’Challa. “What happened this time? I didn’t get cornered on the street, so it must not have been anything bad.”

 

He can’t tell T’Challa’s expression, but his voice is laced with some humor. “You will see.”

 

Clint watches him go, wondering what that was all about. He assumes it must have been some sort of test. Maybe it was a Wakandan ritual that he doesn’t understand. Either way, he’s got a scientist to find.

 

Only, Bruce doesn’t want to be found.

 

*

 

He searches for about four hours to no avail. He figures that Bruce must have picked up some skills during his time on the run, if he’s able to hide from _Clint_ so easily. He looks everywhere in the mansion until Janet catches him moping around the foyer and grabs his hand to drag him into the living room so they can watch Panther and Captain America come out on international television.

 

Clint’s surprised how little this surprises him anymore.

 

They’re holding hands on screen, and T’Challa even has his mask down and a smile on his face. Steve’s doing all the talking as reporters ask ridiculous questions that basically boil down to, “But what about the children?”

 

Clint really wants to ask if there’s something in the water. He wants to ask if there’s some mind control that can make you like tiny scientists with freckles on their nose. He wants to know if there’s a drug that makes it logical for Captain America to think short, curly hair and square shoulders is more attractive than curves. He glances at Jan, but doesn’t remember her ever eyeing up Ms. Marvel, so maybe they’re safe.

 

Thor is there as well, with Jane sitting on the arm of the lazy chair he’s in, so there’s another strike against the something-in-the-water theory. Thor’s got a huge smile on his face but he also looks like he doesn’t quite understand what’s happening.

 

He plops down in the middle of the couch and Jan sits excitedly beside him. Clint vaguely understands that she’s excited _for_ T’Challa and Steve, and Clint thinks maybe he should be excited, too.

 

But he still can’t shake the notion that there’s something wrong with liking Bruce. Even if he’s a total catch and nice within five miles of Hulk and smarter than Clint could ever hope to be. And it’s damn disconcerting. Because all around him are people who clearly just _don’t_ care, but he cares so much. He obsesses over the labels and thinks—even though he knows better—that admitting it would mean he’s gay, and that there’s something wrong with that.

 

He’d thought that he was trying to maintain the illusion earlier, but maybe it’s just deep within him. There’s something that says he should feel bad for thoughts he can’t control, and then he winds up feeling bad about feeling bad.

 

T’Challa and Steve look so _happy_ on screen, even as a reporter asks in no uncertain terms if this means villains will have an easier time taking them out. As if liking men makes them _weaker_ somehow.

 

(And maybe for Clint, there’s still part of him that agrees.)

 

He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice two new bodies entering the room until Hulk plops down cross-legged on the floor and Bruce slips onto the couch beside him. Clint stares at the side of his head incredulously, looking at the way Bruce’s lips turn up at the corners as Steve deftly avoids a particularly off-color question. Bruce looks unbelievably tired as he watches the proceedings. He wonders if Bruce sitting by him means they’re _okay_ now.

 

And it feels nice because the part of Clint that wants to make Bruce happy is momentarily louder than the part of Clint that feels sick and wrong for wanting that.

 

When the press conference is finally over Jan is the first to her feet. “Let’s order in!” she exclaims, and Jane immediately nods and pulls Thor up as well. “We’ll have a pizza party to celebrate when they get back.”

 

Jane and Jan gush over cute boys while Thor gives them his confused-but-happy smile. Even Hulk stands up, grumbling about pizza. But when Bruce makes a move to stand as well, Clint shoots out his hand. He wraps his fingers around Bruce’s wrist and finds he can’t look Bruce in the eye.

 

“Stay,” he asks, and Bruce does.

 

*

 

“You don’t have to apologize,” are the first words out of Bruce’s mouth after Hulk is done giving them the stink eye and the rest of the group has finally left.

 

“I’m sorry,” Clint says anyway, and then winces at how pathetic it sounds. They’re alone in the room together. Even the television is off, leaving huge swaths of silence in between their pitiful attempts to understand one another. “I took advantage of you.”

 

“I beat you up.”

 

He says it like it’s obvious, like _of course_ that means he had to make up for it. It makes Clint feel sick. “It isn’t about getting even,” he says. “That’s not… it was never about that. I didn’t mean to make it about that.” Clint struggles for a moment over what to say, and he can feel Bruce watching him with that bored-not-really look.

 

“I’m sorry I said you weren’t an Avenger,” Clint finally manages. He risks glancing up at Bruce.

 

Bruce looks surprised. “But I’m not.”

 

“Yes, you are.” He tightens his hold on Bruce’s wrist, needing to impart what he’s thinking through physical contact. “And you were then, but I didn’t want to admit it. Christ, Bruce. I compared you to my _bow_. Like you’re an _object_.”

 

It’s there, out in the open. Because that’s really how he viewed Bruce all those months ago. An object. Not something that lives and breathes and desires and wants, but something inanimate. Something that only moves like a marionette. It wasn’t until Bruce popped out of the Hulk that Clint realized, wait a minute, Bruce is a real _person_.

 

“I wasn’t offended.” Bruce shrugs. “You care a lot about your bow in the same way Hulk cares about me.”

 

Clint wants to argue because he was _there_ and he knows that Bruce was offended. Instead, he reaches up and pushes back his cowl so his hair is free and he can look Bruce in the eye without hiding behind a mask. Bruce glances around his face for a moment like he’d forgotten what it looked like.

 

“It’s not the same,” Clint insists. “And I’m sorry for ever saying it. I’m sorry for being a dick to you on all your camping trips, and for making you think you weren’t part of our team. You were one of the original Avengers. It was _you_ I sought out during the gamma energy dome. Because you’re important, Bruce, okay?” He might be rambling a little, but he’s still trying to find the right words.

 

Bruce stares at him as he talks, and then shifts his hand so that their fingers are interlaced. Clint thinks that it’s nicer than gripping Bruce’s wrist like he’s afraid he’ll fly away, and it’s enough to shock him into silence. He looks down at where Bruce’s long fingers are holding on to his own, and it puts a strange feeling in his gut. “I believe you,” Bruce finally says, and Clint lets out a breath.

 

“Good because I’m telling the truth.” Then, “How can I make it up to you?”

 

He lets the silence fall, using an old interrogation trick he likes. Make the other guy uncomfortable enough and he’ll speak first. But Bruce never seems uncomfortable. Just contemplative.

 

“Sleep with me,” Bruce says, and before Clint can freak out he adds, “I mean that literally. Ever since Hulk and I…” he makes a twisting motion with one hand, still holding onto Clint with the other. “Separated, I haven’t been sleeping very well. The only place I’ve felt comfortable is…here.”

 

Clint glances around the living room automatically, remembering all the times Bruce had fallen asleep beside him on the couch. “In the living room?”

 

“With you,” Bruce adds. “If you’d be all right with letting me catch a nap every now and then, it would be very helpful.”

 

Clint looks back to him, feeling like he’s memorizing the dark circles under Bruce’s eyes and the way his stubble doesn’t quite hide the wan, tired look around the corners of his mouth. “Of course,” he says. “Do you need to sleep now? You look like shit.”

 

Bruce grimaces at him, but it’s not an angry grimace. He just looks amused with Clint. “Jan was pretty excited about dinner.”

 

“It can wait. If Tony gets wind of it it’ll be an all-night affair, anyway.” Clint tenses his fingers around Bruce’s hand, feeling suddenly lighthearted. Like he might actually be doing something right. “Wherever you want, Bruce.”

 

“Here is fine,” Bruce says off-handedly. “Just for an hour?”

 

“Of course.” Clint fully intends to let Bruce sleep as long as he needs to.

 

He can tell that Bruce still feels like he’s being an unreasonable bother as they maneuver on the couch. Clint gives up some of the sovereign couch-nation of Clintonia to Bruce and presses back against the arm. He lets Bruce nestle against his side and throws his arm over Bruce’s shoulder. He expects it to feel awkward, maybe, now that they’ve actually talked about it instead of just letting it happen naturally. But it doesn’t.

 

It just feels nice as Bruce’s breathing slows to a steady rhythm and his eyes begin to flicker with REM sleep. One of his hands is curled on Clint’s stomach, right over the spot where he’d landed that uppercut a week-and-a-half ago. Clint still thinks he should feel weird about it, but then he remembers his life is weird. He fights aliens for a living. This is nothing.

 

He’s not tired at all, but he relaxes and lets Bruce sleep. He asks Jarvis to keep out unwanted guests, and for a moment it’s just the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally snuck in my EMH OTP of T'Challa and Steve. whoopsie.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a minute to post. I've written myself into a bit of a corner that I'm trying to work out of. Enjoy~

“You don’t owe me anything.”

 

Bruce blinks sleepily up at him. It’s clear that he wants to argue, if only he could remember how to talk.

 

“I mean it,” Clint says to him. “You don’t owe me anything for this. This is what friends do.” He says that part to himself. “So don’t feel guilty, okay?”

 

Bruce frowns at him for a long time before saying, “Okay.” He clearly hasn’t given in, just postponed the argument for another day.

 

“Okay, good.” Clint lets himself relax. He watches as Bruce regains his bearings, sitting up and glancing around the living room with a slight frown on his face.

 

“How long was I asleep?”

 

“About eight hours.”

 

“Clint,” Bruce admonishes him. “I said _one_ hour.”

 

“It’s fine,” Clint says, even though his shoulders are knotted and he’s not sure he’ll ever get feeling back in his legs from sitting so long. “I figured you needed it.”

 

Bruce gives him a fond look, and for just a moment Clint is blessed with one of Bruce’s honest smiles. The kind that reaches his eyes and makes his whole face light up and reminds Clint of why he’s so screwed. It’s gone just as quickly, and then Bruce is all business.

 

“I should get to the lab,” he says, standing and stretching.

 

Clint wants to join him, but then thinks that maybe that would be weird. “I was going to grab breakfast. Do you want…anything?”

 

“Hmm, maybe I’ll see if there are any leftovers,” he says like it’s not weird between them at all. Clint lets himself believe that it isn’t. He watches Bruce place a hand on his stomach. “I should eat something.”

 

There are leftovers. Lots of them, actually. There’s pizza with three different kinds of cheese and breadsticks that still smell like garlic and are soft when you bite them. They reheat it in the oven while leaning against the counter. Clint counts ceiling tiles and tries not to replace them with freckles in his mind.

 

They eat quietly. Clint can see that Bruce is still sleepy, but also that he’s slipping into that science place where his mind doesn’t quite concentrate on what he’s doing. It’s not a surprise when Bruce finishes his meal before Clint can even really get started and pushes away from the counter with a quiet, “See you.”

 

Clint watches him go.

 

*

 

Of all the things in Clint’s life, literally sleeping with Bruce is the one he actually wants to become a _thing_ -thing.

 

Mostly because Clint is still feeling anxious and worried and like he needs to make up for being totally oblivious to Bruce and Hulk’s feelings. Hulk’s forgiven him (with conditions) but he still feels like he’s walking on eggshells. Like if he breathes wrong he’ll forget himself and wind up pressing or being pressed against the wall.

 

He gives Bruce exactly sixteen hours. It’s a slow day. He takes out a few bank robbers with Steve’s help, and they say hello to Spiderman on the way back. Clint works down his bow and keeps everything in tip-top condition before making his way down to Bruce’s lab.

 

He finds Bruce bent over a tiny square of metal, looking at it through a high-powered microscope. Bruce is alone, and Clint is glad for that.

 

“So,” Clint says as he kicks around the lab. “How regular is your sleep schedule?”

 

Bruce blinks up at him in confusion, eyebrows knotting together across his forehead. He scrubs one hand over his stubbled chin as he thinks. “I sleep when I’m tired?” It sounds like a question, and so Clint reads between the lines and hears _I sleep when I pass out_.

 

“You look tired.” He gestures weakly at Bruce, at the stoop in his shoulder and the tired lines around his eyes. It’s likely that Bruce spent the whole day—all sixteen hours—in the lab.

 

“I’m working.” Bruce turns back to his microscope and spins the knob.

 

Clint rolls his eyes and says, “Do you want me to claim the couch again, or find someplace else?”

 

That gets Bruce looking up with a slight frown. Clint can practically feel his gaze as Bruce looks him over, taking in the dust on his uniform and the slight scuff on his boots. Bruce’s face seems to soften at the sight and he nods. “We could, ah… My room should be fine. It will be better for your back.”

 

Clint gives him a big smile and loops his arm over Bruce’s shoulders, pulling him in to ruffle his hair. He tries to make it brotherly, an echo of the million times that Hulk has done the same thing to him. Bruce just sighs and shoves him off, but there’s a hint of a smirk on his lips as they walk away.

 

Bruce’s room is…Empty.

 

“Do you even live here?” Clint asks as he toes off his boots and throws off his cowl.

 

The room looks like it hasn’t been touched since Tony assigned it to him. There are no pictures on the walls, no knick-knacks or memorabilia. It’s almost morbid in how generic it is. Clint even thinks he sees a thin layer of dust as he sits down on the bed and kicks up his heels.

 

Bruce is glancing around the room as well, taking it all in as if he had never seen it before. “Actually,” he says. “Not really. I’m usually in Hulk’s room or the lab or…the living room.”

 

Clint can count on one hand the number of times Bruce has slept near him in the living room. He wonders if there are others that Bruce has curled up beside. Maybe he’s wound up cuddled next to Jan while she watches sitcoms. Maybe he sleeps over a table in the lab with Tony, or stretched out along Hulk’s side. Perhaps he sleeps on Steve’s shield, curled up like a kitten. For some reason, Clint doubts it. Maybe that’s part of why Bruce always looks so exhausted.

 

“It’s a nice place,” Clint comments. He watches Bruce stand awkwardly even though Clint’s already made himself at home. “Bed’s comfy.” He demonstrates by taking up residence on the far side, away from the door so that Bruce can escape if he needs to, and folding his hands behind his head. He crosses his legs at the ankle and can’t resist a smirk.

 

Bruce smoothes a hand over his t-shirt and finally climbs under the covers. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

 

“I know.” Clint shrugs one shoulder at him. “I’ve slept in worse places. I once had a sniping op where I had to literally sleep under a rock for five days. It flooded underneath on day two, and by the fourth day I was just lying in mud. And the rock was heavy. The mud was great for my skin, though.”

 

Bruce smiles and his nose crinkles up, but he doesn’t laugh. “You’re sleeping in your uniform?”

 

“Pajamas are way too far away,” Clint complains, even though his room is just down the hall. “You’re in your clothes, anyway.”

 

It’s true. Clint can even hear Bruce’s jeans rub as he situates his legs under the covers. “I’m only taking a nap,” he says, and then glares at Clint. “I mean it this time. I’ve asked Jarvis to wake me.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint waves him off and settles himself down. He’s still on top of the covers, but he can see Bruce relaxing as he gets more comfortable.

 

There’s silence for a while, then Bruce says, “Thank you.”

 

Clint says, “Sure,” and they wait for morning together.

 

*

 

(First thing Clint does when he’s sure Bruce is asleep is tell Jarvis not to wake either of them.)

 

*

 

Someone is watching Clint.

 

He can feel it; he can feel that little prickle at the back of his neck from being _observed_. He’d been asleep, snoozing away, but then that feeling woke him up. He’s still trying to pull himself out of dreamland (slowly, slowly, so that the observer won’t notice he’s awake) as he recalls his situation.

 

The sheets beneath his cheek are warm and nice, but the eyes on him make it impossible to enjoy. Until he remembers whose eyes they have to be.

 

He opens his own eyes and finds himself looking straight at Bruce, who startles a little.

 

“Sorry,” Bruce says, then flushes a bit pink. “I mean…” He trails off and looks to the ceiling. “Jarvis never woke me.”

 

“Must be a glitch,” Clint says. Now that he knows the observer was only Bruce he can relax. He stretches out one leg, feeling his knee joint pop and groan in annoyance, and folds his hands behind his head.

 

Bruce chuckles, but doesn’t call Clint out on it this time. Clint glances to the clock and sees that they’ve slept almost exactly eight hours. He wonders if Bruce is on some kind of internal clock that always wakes him up eight hours after he falls asleep.

 

Clint is just starting to think maybe he should feel awkward about this whole thing when Bruce suddenly says, “Do you know if you’ve ever been exposed to Hulk’s blood? Even accidentally?”

 

Clint looks over, confused. “No?” He tries to think about it, can’t recall anything, and says again more firmly, “No. I don’t think he’s ever bleed around me.”

 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Bruce mumbles, mostly to himself it seems. Bruce finally looks over at him, contemplative.

 

“What doesn’t?”

 

“I brought this up with the Hulk,” Bruce says. He gestures at the minimal space between them on the bed, and Clint suddenly knows that he’s as good as dead the next time he runs into Hulk. “We’ve both had difficulties managing our emotions since the split. It’s better when we’re near each other. It’s also better when we’re with you.”

 

“What, really?” Clint blinks at him, suddenly feeling pleased as punch at the news. “That’s awesome.”

 

Bruce shakes his head. “Not really. I have a working theory that it only holds off the mis-management, and leads to harder falls when we do break apart. Hence why I attacked you. Twice.”

 

“Yeah, that sounds less awesome than I though.” Clint shifts up a bit on the bed and picks at the front of his uniform. “Is there a way you can test it?”

 

“I have a few ideas,” Bruce says, but he doesn’t elaborate.

 

Clint waits for him to go on, but when he doesn’t he starts to feel a little awkward. “Why me?”

 

Bruce tilts his head to one side against the pillow, hair falling over his face. “Why you, indeed. That’s the million dollar question.” This time his silence is more contemplative. “You were right there on the roof when it happened.”

 

“Yeah, but so was Ross.”

 

“True. And I don’t feel like Ross would make me more comfortable.” Bruce’s face hardens for a moment. “If anything, I hate him more now.”

 

Clint twitches his hand over his uniform again, brushing away invisible lint. “Bruce,” he says, then stops himself. He thinks about it for a moment. He knows he has to ask, because he promised Hulk. But he still doesn’t like it.

 

“Bruce,” he tries again. “When Cap found you with the, the thing on your neck.” He gestures at the back of his own neck to demonstrate. “It was just you. It was always you and not the Hulk we found with Ross. What…Why?”

 

Bruce wrinkles his nose at the question, and this time it’s not cute. He looks angry again and Clint has the sudden irrational fear that Hulk has somehow been teleported five miles away. But when he speaks his voice is low and even. “Hulk didn’t deserve that kind of treatment.”

 

“Kind of—” Clint stops himself. His mouth flaps uselessly as his mind works to translate the tiny expressions of pain, hurt, anger, and despair on Bruce’s face. Bruce looks away from him as he struggles, and it makes Clint almost afraid. “Oh,” he says rather dumbly. “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” Bruce says, and Clint suddenly remembers that night on the couch when he’d accidentally brought up Skrull Cap getting Bruce kidnapped. Bruce had almost said _you didn’t know_. He hadn’t realized, then, just _what_ he didn’t know. But now he does.

 

“Shit, Bruce.” Clint works his way back down the bed and curls in on himself, feeling sick. “What did he do to you?”

 

Bruce shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. His face is blank, expressionless, and Clint wonders if this is where Bruce originally learned his bored-not-really expression from. “It was just…I was just glad that I could keep the Hulk away.”

 

If it had been another time, another place, Clint might have assumed that Bruce meant he was glad he hadn’t accidentally changed and torn the place apart, killed the people around him. But Clint knows better. He can see by the look on Bruce’s face that he means he was glad he could protect _Hulk_ from whatever evil thing Ross and his men cooked up. That whatever torture he endured, at least Bruce can rest easy knowing Hulk won’t have to remember it as well.

 

Clint wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what to say. So instead he just winds his way closer to Bruce and reaches out to him. Bruce blinks at him, but moves easily enough into his arms and Clint hugs him through the blankets.

 

He rests his chin on the top of Bruce’s head and feels Bruce relax incrementally in his hold. “I hate that guy,” Clint tells him, and Bruce laughs cynically against him. “He’s extra dead next time we see him.”

 

“I hope I never see him again,” Bruce says.

 

Clint nods, knowing Bruce will feel it. “Yeah,” he says, deflating a little of his bravado. “Me too.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real Life (TM) has been kicking me to the curb lately, so sorry about the lateness of this update. I just started a PhD program and it's been a lot busier than I anticipated. No worries, though. I know what happens next and have every intention of finishing this fic. Sometimes I just need you folks to remind me to update. :)

The sleeping does indeed become a thing.

 

Clint is glad for it. It’s nice to see the color come back into Bruce’s cheeks, to see his eyes light up with more liveliness than he’d seen in a long time. Well-rested is a good look on Bruce. It puts a spring in his step and a focus to his movements and a smile on his face. Clint hadn’t exactly realized that Bruce was smiling less until he started getting constantly knocked down by the man’s brilliant, radiant grins.

 

He finds himself moderately stalking the other man, and tells himself that it’s a normal thing to do when you’re worried about someone. He creates a regular nest in the rafters of Bruce’s lab—not that he would ever call it that out loud. He’s got a blanket and some snacks, and even a datapad in case he needs to look something up. He’s already finished Dr. Ross’s journal articles and has decided to start looking into Bruce’s old ones. He’s got the first one pulled up (“Consuming stars: Radiation dampening quadrants in sectors seven and twelve and their effects on the electromagnetic spectrum”) but he hasn’t read it yet. He’s too busy daydreaming and actually-dreaming with Bruce.

 

Sometimes all they do is lie side-by-side, both straight-backed with shoulders squared. Other times Bruce falls into bed face-first with his limbs all tangled up and Clint has to help him get under the covers. Once, Bruce had rolled over in his sleep and rested his long fingers on Clint’s waist and Clint hadn’t been able to sleep any longer.

 

It makes him feel nice to help Bruce. But sometimes things like that happen and he remembers that his intentions towards the other man aren’t just friendly.

 

He really should have expected that someone would notice them both going into Bruce’s room at night and coming out the next morning. He just wishes that person hadn’t been Jan.

 

She sidles up to him in the target room wearing a smile that’s all teeth and predation. They’re alone—thankfully—and she just grins and stares at him as he sinks arrow after arrow into the little round targets.

 

Finally, she can’t take it anymore. “Soo,” she sing-songs, drawing out the word for far too long. “Someone’s been spending an awful lot of time with our favorite irradiated scientist.”

 

“He’s not irradiated anymore,” Clint says, and sinks another arrow.

 

She rolls her eyes and strolls over to him with her hips swaying and her hands waving away his statement. “Spill,” she demands.

 

“There’s nothing to spill.” He sinks two more shots as he speaks. “He sleeps better when there’s someone around.” It’s not exactly a lie. “I guess it’s something he got used to when he and Hulk were still together.”

 

She snickers at his words. “Then why doesn’t he hang out with Hulk, hmm? Or ask anyone else?”

 

“It’s not what you think, Jan.” He sinks another arrow. Another. They make a little circle around the center of the target, and then he sinks the final one dead-center and starts packing up his bow.

 

She taps her foot impatiently and her eyes scan Clint like she’s turning his words over in her mind. “But you want it to be like that.”

 

“I’m not—” He stops himself. He concentrates on folding his bow carefully and counting his arrows.

 

“Oh, Clint,” Jan admonishes him. “What do you take me for? It’s no big deal. I think it’s kind of cute, your little crush. I can see why you like him. I didn’t expect the two of you to go so well together!” Her words rankle him as she speaks, but she doesn’t seem to notice the growing tension in Clint’s shoulders. “I mean, you’re always spending time together. It’s so romantic how you watch out for him in the lab and all around. Like you’re the secret agent who has to protect his man and—”

 

“I’m not _gay_ ,” he says suddenly, and he feels just as surprised as she looks. It’s just a word, should be just a word. He’s said it before and will say it again, but there’s something different about this time. Some mixing of the word, some inflection in his voice that makes it clear his distaste, and his righteous fury at being labelled as such is shocking and a little scary.

 

He says it like it physically repulses him, and maybe it still does.

 

Jan gapes at him for a moment and Clint just stares back. The words just came out of his mouth, and he wants to say that, to take it back and apologize, but he can’t. Because it seems like all the problems he’s been having with himself are tied up in the three-letter word, and now it’s out there for the world to see.

 

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

 

Clint sighs and itches idly at his bow. “I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he says. “I’m not…I’ve got no problem with, with Cap or Panther or Bruce or _anyone_. It’s just really _not_ like that.” He can see her face harden as she scoffs at him, and he ducks his head. “You don’t understand.”

 

“I can’t believe you.” She stomps her foot once in irritation. “I thought you were a good guy. How could you act like that? About our friends?”

 

“It’s not about them,” Clint says because it really, really isn’t. He suddenly feels heavy, thoughts of freckles darkly weighted in his mind. “Damn,” he says to himself. “Jan, what am I supposed to do?”

 

Her tone is still clipped and sharp, but she lets out a long sigh that means she almost forgives him. “What is your deal?”

 

“I like—” He starts, and then stops himself. He thinks back over jelly-hair and too-big shirts and pants with knobby knees. He thinks about bracers that glow green and a face slack with sleep and freckle-wrinkling laughter. He thinks about his confession to Hulk in the kitchen, when he’d said something he never meant to say. He means it now. “I think I’m in love with him. But I hate myself for it.”

 

“Why?” She throws up her arms in disgust. “Clint, I wasn’t kidding. He’s awesome for you! Are you really the kind of person who would think less of someone just because they’re gay?”

 

Clint glances at her quickly, shaking his head. “No way,” he tells himself. “I mean, Cap is still Cap, right? It’s not like they’re _different_.” He scrubs a hand over his face in annoyance. “But, but _I’m_ different. If I let myself do this than I’m not _me_ anymore.”

 

Jan scoffs. “Well if this is the real you, maybe that would be a good thing.”

 

He stares at her for a moment, watching the way she crosses her arms angrily over her chest. He tries to remember being attracted to her, and it comes easily enough. Her hair is shiny and long and nice, and even in anger her face is cute and beautiful. But it doesn’t feel the same, in his head, as when he thinks of Bruce bent over a microscope or chatting easily about radiation or rubbing a hand over his stubble.

 

“Maybe you’re right.”

 

“Of course I am,” she insists. He rolls his eyes at her, but feels a little lighter. “Clint Barton you need to get your act together.”

 

“I really do.”

 

She finally offers him a little smile, and he manages one back. “Let’s go back to the beginning of this conversation,” she says carefully. “Like I just walked in. So.” Her grin widens. “You and Bruce?”

 

His smile solidifies. “Me and Bruce.”

 

*

 

Hulk’s reading the novelization of _For a Few Dollars More_ in the corner of the lab, Bruce is fiddling with a tiny pocket-sized computer he’s been working on, and Tony’s firing partially-untested beams at everything. After a while T’Challa wanders in to fix a problem with his vibranium staff and chat with Tony.

 

Clint sits in his perch and watches them, smiling. He’s got his blanket wrapped around him and he’s feeling relaxed. No one pays him much mind as he swings his legs and reads “Gamma myth?: Radiation exposure and its effects on Super Solider AB1 acceptance in _Mus musculus_ ” by Bruce Banner, PhD.

 

It’s kind of nice.

 

*

 

Until it isn’t.

 

At some point the supervillains they fight start making the connection between _Hulk_ and _definitely losing the fight_. Since then they’ve all come up with ways to try and neutralize the Hulk first, rest of the Avengers be damned. The easiest way thus far is to simply knock Hulk far enough away that he has to take his sweet time getting back. (Clint had once wondered if the villains of the world held little meetings where the discussed strategy, and if one in the back had raised his hand and said, “What if we just gave him a bus ticket to Albuquerque?” It seems likely.)

 

So when Hulk roars into battle wearing Bruce around his neck and Red Skull just _smirks_ …

 

Clint has his arrow drawn and fired, but it seems poised in the air, too slow to stop the _click, bang!_ of the bomb going off.

 

Hulk flies. Bruce falls. He lands hard.

 

Clint rushes through the sea of HYDRA goons to Bruce. He shouts into his comm for Thor to get Hulk, because if he’s gone too far he’ll be half-comatose and unable to rise. Thor says, grimly, that he will do what he can as soon as he—the rest is the garbled sound of Thor being attacked.

 

“Bruce,” Clint says. He covers his prone body, laying down suppressing fire. Fires arrows here, there. “Bruce, can you hear me?”

 

Bruce is silent.

 

“Shit.”

 

A HYDRA goon has a death wish. Clint blows him up. He’s got three arrows in his hand, and he uses them, falling enemies right and left and center until there’s finally space to breathe. He practically falls on Bruce, shaking him, his own self-preservation instinct forgotten as he says, “Come on. Come _on_. Don’t do this to me just when I’m starting to figure myself out.”

 

Silence, then—

 

A fist to the face.

 

It’s the most gratifying punch Clint has ever received. He scrambles away from Bruce, laughing. He doesn’t even care that Bruce is pissed—that Bruce is _furious_ in that all-encompassing way that makes him yank at his hair in a desperate attempt to ground himself.

 

Then he remembers _bracers_.

 

The next punch is much, much worse. Bruce steps into it, glowing green-yellow-blue surrounding his fist and Clint goes _flying_. _Crack_ and he’s off, limbs flailing, pain blossoming, and Bruce following after saying, “What are you _doing_ to me?”

 

_Smack_ he lands against the wall _._ His ribs are eight kinds of broken and he can’t breathe right and there’s Bruce trying to strangle him again which is just—shit. It’s the worst, is what it is.

 

“Bruce, stop,” he rasps. His fingers are under Bruce’s and he’s prying, prying, but Bruce is single-minded in his determination. “Bruce _please_.”

 

Bruce yanks back like he’s been burned and Clint presses the advantage. He’s got an arrow in his hand and he stabs it into Bruce’s side—between third rib and fourth—and it glows bright green and foam spits out. He’s got maybe ten seconds to get away and he uses them.

 

Clint hobbles and shouts, “Need backup!” and he can hear the foam crackling behind him. He’s got a hand over his ribs and he can feel how they shift and scrape and it makes him feel just as sick as when he sees that unbridled rage in Bruce’s eyes. He hears foam _shatter_ and he whirls around, tripping over his own dumb feet in time to see Bruce _spring at him and—!_

 

_Twang_. Cap’s shield, followed by Cap, trading blows that are just-this-side of light as Bruce snarls and rages at him.

 

Clint falls to the floor.

 

Bruce knocks Cap back.

 

Clint raises his bow.

 

Cap smacks him with his shield.

 

Clint draws, aims.

 

It’s a piercing arrow, and he knows that Bruce could block it. But with Cap distracting him he might just have a chance to, to…to what?

 

As he looks down the sight of his arrow at Bruce, at the panic in his eye and the rage on his face, he can’t remember. His ribs are screaming from how he’s holding the bow, and so he lowers it. Bruce strikes out with one hand and Cap goes flying—and apparently all his rage is directed at Clint because Bruce whirls around and stalks towards him, green-blue-yellow like twisted ribbons off his skin and his finger curling and spasming into fists.

 

Clint sets his bow down.


	11. Chapter 11

Clint’s gotten used to waking up in the morning to Bruce. Sometimes, Bruce is still asleep, like he’s waiting for the clock to roll over and exactly eight hours to have passed before he flutters open his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. Other times he’s already awake, because Clint doesn’t sleep on the same perfect schedule. Bruce just lies very still on mornings like that, as if he doesn’t want to bother Clint.

So maybe that’s why he puts his bow down. Because he knows when he slips into unconsciousness that it will be okay. He’ll get his chance to wake up to Bruce again.

Only, when he finally wakes up Bruce isn’t there.

What is there is a sudden, searing acknowledgment of pain in his ribs that all the drugs in the world can only temper. It makes him gasp and struggle to remove the oxygen mask on his face. His eyes throw themselves open as if _seeing_ might tell him the source of the pain, even though it’s centered inside his body.

A great, green hand stops him from removing the mask. Clint shivers for a moment as Hulk carefully stills his motions. When he finally turns to look, Hulk seems almost frustrated with him.

“Cupid okay?” he asks.

Clint feels like breathing is more painful than just letting himself die, and like his arms don’t fit right in their sockets. His face is worse and he’s sort of squinting through what has to be a black eye, but he says, “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Hulk grunts, clearly disbelieving. “Good,” he says anyway.

He moves back to the chair beside the bed and sits down, dwarfing it. It creaks under him and he crosses one ankle over his knee and he arms over his chest and smirks down at Clint. Clint gives him a wan smile back under the oxygen mask, wincing at the way it pulls at his face.

“Is Bruce all right?”

“He’s in the lab,” Hulk says, which isn’t really an answer.

Clint nods anyway. He can read between the lines well enough to see that Hulk means _no_. “Are you okay? You got thrown pretty far.”

Hulk shrugs. “I can’t get hurt.” He frowns down at Clint, accusatory. “Stark set up a whole medical bay just for you so you could stay at the mansion.” He grunts, clearly wondering why everyone can’t be as indestructible as he is.

“That’s…nice of him.” Clint licks his lips, feeling how dry they are. "Water?”

Everything is tiny in Hulk’s hands as he pulls away the oxygen mask and holds a cup and straw to Clint’s lips. Clint finds he’s having trouble remembering how to drink, but eventually he figures it out and his throat feels better for it. Hulk is watching him as he leans back on the cot, wincing the whole while.

They sit in silence for a while, save for the steady beat of machinery and the drip of medication. Clint’s not sure what to say. _Your other half is kind of scary maybe_ , or _Can you help me go find him_? He doesn’t say anything. He just watches Hulk pick at the corner of a book with a title he can’t see at this angle. Hulk isn’t reading it, just scratching the pages with his thumb.

Finally, Hulk says, “Don’t ever do that again.”

Clint blinks up at him, a little shocked. “Sorry?”

“You should be.”

He smiles, and Hulk smiles back, and for the first time since AIM and the wall, Clint thinks that maybe things are okay between him and Hulk. He lets himself relax a little in the cot, feeling the scratchy blanket against his toes.

Then Hulk says, “Can you pick a lock?” and Clint can only laugh and nod his head as he winces.

*

It’s three days of recovery before he finally just steals a back brace and escapes the medical wing of the mansion. He’s pretty much gotten a visit and a stern lecture from everyone by this point—save for one missing, freckled scientist. Thor had been particularly colorful before finally leaning in and basically telling Clint to go get his man.

Clint wonders if everyone knew about this before he did. Then he thinks about Steve’s earlier chat with him as they stared out the window and realizes, dammit, he’s been played.

He finds some pants to slip under his medical gown and drags his way to the lab. The door is indeed locked, and Clint gets a strange sense of déjà vu as he ignores Jarvis and picks it. He’d forgotten to actually tell Tony to up the security, but he’s thankful for that right now.

Bruce looks up at him in shock as he blazes in with his coattails twirling behind him. Then, Bruce throws down whatever he’s working on and dashes across the lab, hiding himself in the far corner.

“Clint, get away from me,” he says, sounding more afraid of himself than anything.

“Yeah, no,” Clint says. He strolls across the lab like he doesn’t have three fractured ribs. He knows he looks like shit with yellowing bruises on his face, but he still smiles as he approaches. “How have you been sleeping, Freckles?” The nick-name surprises him a bit, but he turns it over in his head and decides he likes it. Yes. Bruce is ‘Freckles’ now.

Bruce grimaces at him, dark circles under his eyes almost as bad as the black-eye Clint is sporting. “Clint, it isn’t safe for you to be around me.”

“Hulk’s in the mansion and he’s not going anywhere. He’s plenty close enough.” He’s practically on top of Bruce now, but he hangs back a little to let Bruce get acclimated to him again. “I’m not blaming you for something you did while you were out of your mind.”

“You should,” Bruce says instantly. “I-I need to get back to work. Please let me get back to work, Clint.”

Clint picks at the edge of his back brace through his hospital gown. “What’re you working on?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Then why are you so eager to get back to it? Hulk says you haven’t even left the lab."

Bruce casts his eyes down and pulls a face that makes Clint’s heart clench. “It’s a cure.”

“A…” Clint suddenly has a flash of memory, of Bruce chained up in The Cube and explaining to him how he no longer wanted to cure Hulk. How he wanted to _work_ with his greener half and maybe even find a place for him. It’s just a second, maybe two, of remembering how stern Bruce had looked even in torn pants with three-day-old stubble on his face. “…Cure?”

“For me. To return to Hulk.”

“Bruce you don’t need a _cure_. You’re not sick!”

“Yes I am!” He throws his hands in the air. “And he is, too. We both don’t exist properly without the other. Even just, just a few miles are enough that I go completely insane! Psychotic! I hurt you Clint. You were unconscious for two days. You can’t tell me that’s normal.”

“Oh, it’s not.” Clint shrugs at him. “But when has any Avenger ever done anything normal? We try to have normal-people problems in the middle of alien invasions. We go out for pizza after fighting Norse Gods. We talk about the meaning of friendship with a super soldier who was frozen seventy years ago while he punches a guy whose face melted off. Our lives aren’t normal, Bruce!” He takes a step forward, another, and Bruce flinches back against the wall. “I was stupid for not making my own normal,” he adds, mostly to himself.

Bruce still won’t look at him. He just looks so tired and small there that Clint can’t help but close the distance and pull him into a hug. His ribs yell in protest and Bruce goes stiff against him, but they’re hugging so maybe it’ll be okay. “Clint,” Bruce warns. “You can’t just, just ignore this and have everything be fine.”

Clint lets out a long, low sigh and says, “I can try.”

Bruce stiffens again, and then relaxes as Clint holds him. Eventually his arms come up to cup Clint’s elbows and Clint figures that’s about all he’s going to get, so he pulls back and smiles, holding Bruce at arm’s length. Bruce looks down again. “I’m sorry.”

“Come with me.” Clint drops one hand to tangle their fingers together and tugs Bruce over to the opposite wall. “How good is your climbing?”

Bruce looks at the smooth expanse of the wall with a hint of confusion. “Not very good?”

“I’ll help you.”

It’s awkward, with Bruce mostly helping Clint to support his ribs as they make their way up the shear, smooth wall. The visible-only-to-him handholds that Clint always uses seem too small today, and he’s breathing heavy and wishing he’d brought more medication when they finally make it into the rafters. After that things get easier, and Clint is pleased to see that no one has disturbed his nest.

He crawls over to the blanket and pulls it up over his feet. Bruce nervously, carefully follows after him. His hands are gripping the rafters solidly and he’s shaking a bit. He won’t look down, either, just stares straight ahead at Clint’s face as if that will help to ground him.

“This is a horrible idea,” Bruce tells him.

“Nah, it’s brilliant.” Clint eventually has to just pull Bruce against him, trying to hide his wince as he does so. There isn’t a lot of space in the rafters and so Bruce huddles at his side, his long fingers gripping Clint’s hospital gown for purchase. “I won’t let you fall.”

Bruce manages a smile. “Not exactly conducive for sleeping.”

“Better than under a rock.” Clint reaches behind him and finds his StarkPad where he had left it. “How about a little bedtime story?” He flips it on, glad for the long battery life, and then waves it in front of Bruce’s face.

Bruce has to squint to see it, and then his eyes widen. “I wrote that,” he says. “Why are you reading something I wrote?”

“It’s interesting.” He slips his other arm around Bruce’s shoulders and holds him close. “We can relive your grad school days. Just don’t laugh when I can’t pronounce things.”

“I won’t,” Bruce says honestly and then finally, finally settles in against Clint.

Clint smiles down at him, tracing freckles with his eyes, and reads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, whenever I copy/paste from google docs is loses all the formatting (italics, etc.). Does anyone know how to save that?


	12. Chapter 12

Clint awakes to a _clang_ and his first instinct is to tighten his grip on Bruce.

He immediately regrets it as his ribs scream at him for being an idiot, and Bruce’s eyes flutter open in confusion. Bruce looks sleepy for a moment before he seems to register the situation. He half-panics, his hand wrapping tighter into the front of Clint’s gown as he says, “Tell me I didn’t climb into the rafters with you.”

Clint gives him a crooked smile. Before he can answer, he hears more clanging down below.

He shifts so he can see Steve and Tony messing with the door to the lab. Tony is complaining loudly about how the door is broken. Steve looks contemplative, tapping his finger on his chin.

“Hey!” Clint yells down at them and snickers as they both startle and look up. “Can’t a guy get any sleep around here?”

“Hawkeye?” Tony squints up at them. “And Bruce? What’s going on?”

Bruce tentatively raises a hand and gives them a little wave. Clint answers for them, “Told you. Sleeping. Your medical wing leaves a lot to be desired, Stark.”

Steve laughs at them and raises a datapad. “We were looking for you, Dr. Banner. We have something that might interest you.”

“Oh?” Bruce calls down. “What is it?”

Steve’s charming smile widens and Tony looks positively giddy. “Good news.”

*

In this case ‘good news’ is actually just that, and they find out that Bruce can now get further from the Hulk without losing control. Specifically, the Hulk is currently standing six miles away from them and clearly Bruce is doing just fine.

For some reason, Bruce seems to think this is a fate worse than death and he calmly ushers them all out of his lab so that he can get back to work. Clint really wants to argue, but he also really wants some of the good drugs and so he heads back to medical first.

When his ribs aren’t complaining too loudly anymore he tightens his brace and slips his uniform on over it. He looks a bit weird, extra bulky around the middle and unable to bend, but he feels better in purple and it’s nicer for sneaking, anyway.

Then he kidnaps Dr. Ross.

‘Kidnaps’ is a loose term. He sneaks into Berty’s office and invites the man over, saying that Bruce could use a friend. They stop by the bakery and Berty picks up a box of soft cookies filled with dates and nuts that have powdered sugar on them. Clint can’t pronounce their name, but Berty says they’re Bruce’s favorite. It’s one of Clint’s most enjoyable kidnappings to date.

Bruce still doesn’t acknowledge them when they knock, and Tony hasn’t upped the security yet, so Clint picks the lock and lets Berty into the lab. Bruce’s eyes are comically large as Berty enters and carefully sets the box of cookies down on the counter before throwing his arms around Bruce’s neck and hugging him fiercely.

Clint has to look away.

When he looks back Bruce seems better off for it and he sheepishly offers Clint a cookie.

The three of them sit and chat—well, Bruce and Berty chat, Clint mostly listens because he likes hearing Bruce laugh—until Hulk wanders by looking uncertain with a book under his arm. Berty’s eyes are comically wide.

“Oh, wow, Mr. Hulk,” he says, thrusting out his hand. “You probably don’t remember me but—”

“Your hair’s shorter,” Hulk says, and he accepts Berty’s awkward handshake, dwarfing his hand with his own. “Sorry about the coma.”

Berty actually laughs at that, like it’s some inside joke between the two of them, and their strange little party becomes four.

Maybe it’s because the lab isn’t the best place for these things, but eventually they find their way to the living room with Clint begrudgingly giving up some of his couch so that Bruce can sit between him and Berty. Hulk stretches out on the floor and Clint kicks at him until Hulk lets Clint use him as a footrest (“To give my ribs a rest,” he says, and Hulk just grumbles around his smile.) They watch a movie that has too much tap-dancing for Clint’s taste, but he can’t really concentrate on his aversion because Bruce is warm and nice at his side and Berty is extremely clever with his critiques.

This time, when Berty and Bruce part ways there’s no kiss—but they do make plans to meet again. Hulk gives Berty a little wave of his hand as he goes, and Berty waggles his fingers at the three of them standing in the doorway.

When Bruce yawns and stretches, it’s not forced at all and Clint is happy to suggest bed even though he’s still kind of energized from the movie. Hulk gives them a weird look and lumbers off without another word and Clint thinks oh but doesn’t have time to do anything about it before Bruce pulls him along to his room.

“Does Hulk have trouble sleeping?” he asks as he stares at the wall and tries not to listen to Bruce putting on his pajamas.

“He hasn’t mentioned anything. He did when we first separated, but said he was doing better. Why do you ask?”

Clint shrugs and when Bruce finally crawls into bed he lets himself roll over to look at Bruce in the dim light. “He told you it was easier on him to be near me, right?”

“Yes?” Bruce sounds hesitant, brown eyes searching as he thinks through the same puzzle Clint is working on. After a moment his face softens and he says, “I’m an idiot.”

They gather up extra pillows and blankets and Clint picks the lock to Hulk’s room.

Hulk is warm and solid on his left side and Bruce is calm and gentle on his right. Bruce won’t touch him out of deference to his ribs, but Hulk has no such qualms and pokes him lightly in the hip to irritate him. It’s pretty clear that as soon as his ribs are healed he’s going to have to put up with more cuddling-that-is-definitely-not-spooning.

Clint doesn’t mind, though, as his friends fall into easy sleep beside him and he tumbles slowly after.

*

It happens when Bruce finally gets his pocket-sized computer to work.

Hulk is reading something about a swordfighter and Clint is methodically unpacking and repacking his quiver. He’s not in his nest at the moment, preferring to scatter his arrows all across the lab table so he can look at them. And if he’s closer to Bruce’s excited energy, well that’s just another positive.

“I’m just going to try it out on Tony’s systems,” Bruce says, and raises the little device towards the sky. He depresses the button in the center and the lights flicker and dim. Bruce seems almost surprised when he looks down at the screen and says, “Huh. I just hacked Jarvis.”

“Is that even possible?” Clint sidles over to him and looks down at the rectangle of plastic. He can’t make out exactly what’s going on but when Bruce turns to him with a huge smile on his face, he smiles back.

“Clint!” he says happily. “My tech is better than Tony Stark’s!”

Maybe Clint should be worried about that. Maybe he should fret that if Bruce has a bad day he’ll take over the entire Eastern seaboard. Maybe he should stop trying to get Bruce _not_ to put himself back in the Hulk. Maybe Clint should do a lot of things, but instead he says, “That’s awesome, Bruce!”

Bruce laughs with him, his freckles drawing together over his nose. His enthusiasm is infectious to Clint, and has Hulk grumbling in the corner, saying, “You two are sickening.”

It’s a jibe that Clint can live with, so he sticks out his tongue at Hulk and only feels a little childish. “You don’t have to put up with us.”

Hulk just grumbles into his book.

Clint’s still happy, smiling when he turns back to Bruce and finds the man standing closer than he had before. Bruce still has the little computer in one hand as he tilts his head to the side like Clint’s a scientific theory he’s dying to test. Bruce takes a step into him and interlaces their fingers together.

“This okay?” Bruce asks, and Clint nods _yes_.

Bruce kisses him. It’s astonishing and wonderful and it makes Clint go weak in the knees because there’s no adrenaline to blame it on, no furtive worry that he’s doing something wrong. Just Bruce, and Bruce initiating. Asking and wanting and Clint can’t help but kiss back.

Maybe there’s a time before jelly-hair and too-big shirts that Clint would have thought that a simple kiss shouldn’t make him feel this good. But at this moment he knows that it should. Because this is Bruce and Bruce always makes him feel this way.

“Get a room,” Hulk says, and even though his voice is gruff he’s also teasing.

They break apart laughing, and Clint finally decides that it’s okay to memorize those freckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ever try to write something in present tense again shoot me. Also, tell me if I screw up the tense.


End file.
